Gone
by homeric
Summary: Detective Carter is missing, Taylor is a mess and Reese is seriously considering emptying a gun into The Machine. Rated for swearing, violence and disturbing themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer : nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"I don't have anything I care about". John had said it once as an off-hand comment to Harold, and at the time it had been mostly true. Now though, staring at the trashed mess that was Detective Carter's apartment and trying his best to avoid Taylor's wide, terrified eyes, he wonders how quickly things had changed, and how he apparently hadn't even noticed before.

"Tell me again." His voice is fairly steady and John thanks God for that, because his heart is slamming so hard against his ribs that there isn't much he can feel but the rush of blood and enough adrenaline to make his limbs numb.

"I came home and found..." he gestures to the wreck of the living room. "This. Mom said she was going to make pasta when I got home from practice but her phone's on the table and so's her bag, so she had to have been here, and I don't know..."

Taylor sounds shaky and afraid, and in a perverted way it centres John a little when he starts to talk. The boy needs him to be calm so he's going to be calm, even though everything in his mind is screaming at him to _just give up with the niceties and fucking find Joss already._

"This was what, a half hour ago?" When Taylor nods, he checks the place quickly. There's pasta sauce in a pan on the stove and a half chopped onion on a cutting board on the side. Joss's gun is still on top of the fridge with her badge and the front door wasn't broken into, suggesting that she had opened it willingly, trustingly. Whatever happened happened fast. The broken lamp, the upturned table spoke of a struggle and a noisy one at that. The 911 call from one of the neighbours that Finch had intercepted complaining of a domestic incident in the building had come through only five minutes before Taylor had arrived home and called the precinct. Reese had beaten the cops to the scene, but he knows that he's only got a couple of moments before they arrive. He tries not to look at the blood splatter on the wall that the teenager can't seem to take his eyes off. There's not enough blood to cause full blown panic, but he knows what the evidence of a gunshot wound looks like, and Joss's gun is still tucked in its holster in the kitchen, safe and sound and obviously unfired.

_If she was dead then they would have left her body – no point in taking her, _he tells himself. It's pretty pathetic comfort, but he says it to Taylor anyway.

"So we're going to get her back right?" It's not a question it's an order. The teenager's brown eyes have darkened with purpose and rage, and while that's probably better than him falling apart, it's an emotion that John knows all to well, as are the consequences of it. The last thing he needs is Taylor going vigilante when he's trying to find his mother.

"We'll find her, but I need you here." Time is running out, already he can hear the sirens approaching. "The police are going to have questions, they're going to be doing their thing while I'm doing mine." Fishing a scrap of paper and a pen from the notebook by the phone on the table next to the couch he quickly scribbles down the number of his latest untraceable cell phone. "I need you to keep me in the loop and cover for me. Here's where to reach me. You know Detective Fusco?" When Taylor nods, he hands him the note. "You can trust him. I'll come get you in a couple of hours, tell anyone who asks that you're staying with a friend of your mom tonight."

Taylor tucks the paper in his pocket. He looks a little calmer, John thinks, but frightened and painfully young. Reaching out he rests his hand on the teenager's narrow shoulder. "I'm getting her back, ok?"

"Ok." The words are soft but determined.

Time's running out and the cacophony of voices below announces the arrival of the police. John heads quickly for the fire escape, pulling on the gloves he always keeps in his pocket so as not to leave prints.

"Wait!" Taylor's head pokes out the kitchen window as Reese bounds down the steel steps that criss cross down the back of the building. Pausing, the tall man looks back up at him. "If I'm staying with you then where? How are you going to find me?"

"It won't be a problem, I'll see you later." Voices are emanating from the apartment now, and with one last exasperated look Taylor ducks his head back inside and John drops down onto the street below.

**A/N: sorry it's short – setting the scene, but updates will be swift I promise. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Joss isn't sure how long she was unconscious, where she is or how she got there. What she is sure of is that she's in big trouble, no-one knows where she is, and whoever dressed the gunshot wound in her shoulder wasn't a proper doctor because she was already bleeding through the thick pad of gauze that had been hastily taped over it.

Trying to wriggle into an upright position doesn't do anything but make her head swim and black spots bloom infront of her eyes, beckoning her back into the oh so tempting comfort of passing out once again, because God it _hurts_, her wrists and feet are bound and she's pretty sure that she's never been so scared in her life.

It's the last thought that rallies her a little. She's not some pathetic victim for Chrissake, she's a Detective. She's the one kicking ass and taking names. Taylor... Oh God Taylor. If they came for her then what if they come for _him? _One man might have shot her and abducted her, but she knows a mercenary when she encounters one and mercenaries have to be hired. The masked man hadn't said a word and she hadn't recognized him so it couldn't have been a personal vendetta- if it had been then what would be the point if she didn't know who it was getting revenge? Swallowing hard she closes her eyes for a few moments and takes several deep breaths. Listening to the sounds, or lack thereof around her. Ok she's alone. That much is obvious even before she opens her eyes and looks around the small room that she's being held in. The floor is vinyl, a faded green and worn down to the cotton in some places. The concrete walls are bare of nothing but mould in the far two corners nearest a tiny barred window. The door... it looks sturdy enough but the lock is the traditional kind – from the smell and the sense of decay that permeates her temporary prison she's pretty sure she's the youngest thing in here. If she can get to the door then she might have a chance at picking the lock. She might have a badge and a gun now but when she was fifteen she had an attitude, no love for the law and a reputation amongst her friends of breaking into the local gym with nothing but two hair pins so that they could play midnight basketball.

Perhaps ten minutes of wriggling against the plastic binds that tie her wrists and ankles and any surge of hope has bled out along with more blood than she can afford to lose. She's managed to get to the door but she can't get up easily, and even if she could she can't reach the lock even if she did have something to pick it with. The small bit of wire that she'd found tucked under the floor covering took all of two seconds to crumble in her numb fingers. Lifting her arms makes the memory of childbirth seem like a walk in the park and so she sits down before she falls down. Yelling herself hoarse has done exactly nothing. That's both a blessing and a curse. Obviously she's somewhere way off the beaten track. She can't even hear faint traffic noise so where the hell is she?

Slumping against the damp wall Joss curses herself for a fool. She hadn't even thought twice before opening the door to her home when there was a knock upon it. James, usually known as Jamie was one of Taylor's friends – she knew him, knew his mom. When he'd called and asked if he could drop off a book that her son had left him the last thing she had expected to see was a masked man holding a gun to his head and his eyes wild with terror.

She didn't do too badly given the circumstances she supposes. She'd grabbed the gun and knocked the boy sideways. He'd ran like a jackrabbit and really, at least she could be happy that Jamie had gotten away. The fight had been short and brutal. The man had been big, well trained, and although she hoped to hell that when she had hit him over the head with the lamp she'd given him the mother of all headaches, once he'd shot her things went fuzzy very quickly – he probably hadn't even needed to punch her to knock her out.

_Whoever it was didn't want her dead,_ she thinks. She hadn't had a chance to get remotely near her gun. There's a reason that she's still alive and she's not entirely sure that she wants to know the answer to why. The one thing that she can cling to is the hope that somewhere out there there is a tall man in a black suit with grey eyes looking for her, and the knowledge that by doing so might get him killed too hurts more than the bullet in her shoulder.

* * *

"James Kenyon." Harold's fingers have been tapping out their own chaotic rhythm on the computer keyboard for so long that when he speaks it's almost a surprise to John. He'd gotten back to the library within minutes, and while he was unsure as to what his employer or friend felt about the Detective his agitation was unmistakable. As was his he imagines. What is the point of The Machine if it doesn't predict exactly this sort of event? What was the point of him if he couldn't prevent it from happening? And this isn't a random number, this is Joss. Out there alone unarmed, alone, and he absolutely is not going to think about the blood on the wall because it's hard enough to keep it together as it is.

"Another number or a suspect?"

"A witness I believe, Mr Reese." Harold turns awkwardly in his seat, scribbling down the address of his quarry on a bit of scrap paper before handing it to the taller man. "Security cameras from the front of Detective Carter's apartment building went down this morning, and although I've tried to hack into the footage preceding this it appears that they are using somewhat outdated methods to record the activity in their domain."

"Outdated?" Reese keeps his voice studiedly calm.

"VHS tapes. I'm surprised that the system still works. The wiring alone must be... If I could acquire the tapes then I might be able to ascertain who took her, but that is going to take time. "

"We don't have time. You said we have a witness, Finch."

"That's right." Harold turns back to the screen. With a couple of taps on the keys a fuzzy picture pops up, a couple more and it sharpens to reveal red-headed teenaged boy's profile. "This is James Kenyon. Fifteen years old, good grades, on the basketball team with Detective Carter's son and with a clean sheet when it comes to engaging in nefarious activities. This picture was taken from a Subway's restaurant at six twenty seven. Two minutes later..." His fingers flash across the keyboard and another grainy picture appears. In it the silhouette of a man with a dark hooded sweatshirt seems to be grabbing the boy. "So far I have been unable to ascertain his abductor, but if we cut to twelve minutes later we can see him from the security camera of the garage below Detective Carter's establishment. That corresponds with this..." A blurry image of a big white SUV with no license plates fills the screen. "It was taken nine minutes later. The boy seems to be running away. The suitcase that is being put in the backseat of the vehicle is big enough to hold a..." Harold hesitates for a moment. "Person of Detective Carter's size." He needn't have bothered with dancing around the subject. The word _body _hangs between them as tangible as if he'd said it out loud.

"Whoever it was used the kid as bait to get Carter to open the door."

"It would seem so." Finch frowns at the computer. "I'm not getting anything from the vehicle, if she was even transported in it, but since it's got no identification it's going to be reported sooner rather than later. It's not turning up on any traffic cameras so I'm thinking that they've abandoned it somewhere and switched to new transportation."

Reese processes the information and considers several courses of action before deciding upon one. James Kenyon obviously has intelligence regarding what has happened, he needs to keep Taylor safe, and if the two are friends then it makes sense to take Joss's son with him when he collects the other boy. He knows that he intimidates people – it's what makes him so good at his job usually, but he doesn't want Kenyon just saying whatever he thinks he wants to hear. From what he's seen the kid wasn't a willing party to any of this. Rattling him even further would make things more difficult, and at least Taylor, angry though he might be is someone he knows and would be more willing to confide in and help.

"I'll pick up Taylor then James and question them. Get on the trail of the SUV and I'll follow it once I've got what I need from James." Grabbing his jacket and shrugging it back on, the sense of purpose is at least a faint balm to his low level panic. "I'll bring Taylor back here afterwards; there's no way he's going to sit quietly when his mom is missing, at least if he's with you he can feel like he's helping."

"And what pray tell am I supposed to do with young master Carter while you are away?" Finch said eyes so wide that they looked owlish behind his spectacles. "Trade Pokemon cards? Discuss the prejudice against Hufflepuffs in J.K. Rowlings oeuvre?"

"To much information Harold." John re-loaded his Glock and tucked a couple more magazines into his pocket. The rifles under the shelf that held the British Encyclopedia were tempting, but if it came to that then he'd need to come back and prepare a considered assault plan anyway.

"You're trusting this, all of this knowledge. Everything that we do with a child." Harold's tone isn't accusatory, he sounds genuinely interested.

"You trusted it to a violent drunk who could kill you without raising a sweat," John points out. "Of the two of us the kid is a safer option. We'll be back as soon as we've got answers. Maybe order take-out, he didn't get dinner."

**A/N wow, thanks for the response to chapter one guys, really appreciate it. This will probably be a 10 chapter story (I'll try not to go as nuts as I usually do on multichapter fics). Rating might go up later but I'll provide a warning if so. When it comes to violence and bad language one person's "T" rating is another's "M" so if you think I've crossed the line then let me know and I'll change the rating.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Detective Fusco doesn't look happy at having to wait around in the little diner a few blocks down from the precinct, but John resists from making a sarcastic comment when walks over to them. Taylor is nursing a coke with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, however the other man at least seems to have made an effort to look after the kid, and the first words out of his mouth are "any news on Carter?" For that alone his opinion of the man rises a little.

John chooses his words carefully. Taylor is looking at him with a mixture of hope and dread, and while he doesn't want to dash his hopes he doesn't want to lie to him either. Instead he deflects the question. " Ballistics, forensics – are there any results yet?"

Fusco shakes his head. "Nah, but believe me they're doing a rush job on things over there. I reckon maybe an hour before they get the bullet from the wall run through the system." When Taylor frowns he winces. "Sorry. She'll be ok, we'll get her back."

"I know." The words are meant for the Detective but he looks at Reese when he says them. "We're going to find her."

"Yeah, there's someone I need you to talk to. We need to go." John waits for Taylor to grab his backpack and nudges him towards the direction of the door. "You'll keep me informed I trust, Fusco."

"Hey I'm behind you on this." The middle aged man scrubs a hand through his hair. "Carter's good people you know. Take care of the kid."

The teenager opens his mouth in protest at the "kid" reference, but Reese hustles him out of the door and into the car parked down the block before he has a chance to give any real protest. Slamming the door of the blue Honda which smells of cheap perfume and whose keys Finch had provided without any explanation, Taylor glares at the man who slides in next to him.

"Who are we going to talk to? Have they got mom?"

"Put your seatbelt on." John waits with a patience he has to struggle for before putting the key in the car's ignition and pulling out into the traffic. The teenager buckles up sulkily, giving the man beside him a frustrated look that Reese studiously ignores. "How well do you know James Kenyon?"

Taylor looks utterly blank for a moment before his brow furrows. "Jamie? Jamie from school?"

"Red-head who plays on your basketball team. We think someone might have used him to get your mom to open the door to whoever took him." Harold's voice crackles into his earpiece, and John flicks the indicator light, taking the next left turn towards the park where according to The Machine Kenyon was currently located.

"He's ok. We hang out sometimes..." Taylor's hands clench around the backpack on his lap. "You think he sold my mom out?"

"I think if you put a gun to someone's head or threaten your family there's a lot that most people would do whether they want to or not," John replies. He needs the teenager to talk to his friend not kick the crap out of him. "We need his help, we need to know who coerced him and I need you to keep cool and ask him what he knows. Can you do that?"

"Yeah." Taylor tugs at one of his sleeves. "Yeah. Whatever it takes man."

"Good."

Following Finch's directions John drives through a housing project that might once have been decent and now is falling into disrepair. Giving a quick check to make sure that there aren't too many people around, he circles around the park and keeps the engine idling while he lets Taylor out. It's not a big place, seemingly used more as a dumping ground for trash than recreation. The yellowing grass has pretty much given up on trying to grow on the sparse soil and of the six lonely looking swings tucked under the beech trees two are missing their seats. Upon one of the still functioning ones James Kenyon's red hair makes him easy to identify even from a distance. Parking the car in the driveway of an obviously long abandoned house, John jogs around to the gate to the south of the park. Several large bushes provide cover, and when James Kenyon predictably bolts as soon as he sees Taylor it's easy to catch him as he tries to make his escape. Grabbing his wrist and shoulder, John shoves the teenager back into the park, dumping him onto a bench covered in graffiti. "Mr Kenyon I presume," he says dryly. Taylor is beside him within a moment, his eyes wild, and it's only sharp reflexes that allow him to grab the kid by the back of his shirt before he can attack his friend.

"Taylor, no." The tone of his voice has had terrorists literally pissing themselves before, but it takes a glare and a shake of his head as well before the kid finally backs down somewhat.

"Where the fuck is my mom?" Taylor's voice is shaky and he's so tense that Reese doesn't dare let him go. If James makes a run for it trying to hang on to the both of them is going to take all his energy and time that they simply can't afford to waste. One look at Kenyon's face though and he relaxes slightly. The redhead doesn't look panicked anymore he looks utterly miserable, and John is fairly sure that if he let Taylor beat him to a pulp he'd probably let him without putting up any sort of fight whatsoever.

"Tay.." When James finally speaks his voice is quiet. "I swear to God I didn't have a choice. He had a gun. He said that if I didn't tell him where you'd live he'd kill me _and_ my mom."

"So you sold _my_ mom out instead." Taylor's voice is bitter but John can feel the anger bleeding out of him. When he lets go of the kid he walks over to the bench and slumps down next to his friend, most of the fight in him gone. "Who was he? Do you know him?"

James shakes his head. "Never seen him before. He knew my name though, he knew that I knew you. I was waiting to see if you wanted to walk back after practise, maybe shoot a couple of hoops down with the little kids on the court by the 7-11, show them how it's done but you never turned up."

"I left my phone in my locker, Coach Davies offered me a ride home and we went out the back to the teacher's car park."

"Who took you?" Taylor looks like he's on a fast track to blaming himself for not actually being in the wrong place at the wrong time, so John tries to get things back on track. "What did he look like, was there only one person and what happened when you got to Detective Carter's apartment?"

"Who are you?" James gives him an uncertain look. "Are you the police?"

"I'm a friend of the family. If you could answer the questions." Keeping calm is becoming increasingly difficult, but shooting or torturing the teenager to get information is a line that even he won't cross. Although perhaps it might make things go more swiftly.

"Ok, yeah," Jamie gives him a wholly mistrustful look, and at least that's one thing in his favour John thinks. The kid isn't an idiot, just another victim. "This guy, he comes up to me and says my name like we're buddies or something. The next thing I know there's a gun against my ribs and I'm being tossed into a car and told to shut up and not make a sound or I'm dead and when he's finished with me then he's going after my mom."

"What did the car look like, what did he look like?"

"It was a white, a what do you call it – SUV. He had brown hair. Shorter than you, maybe a bit under six foot, but heavy, like he worked out. When we got to Taylor's place he put a mask on and made me knock on the door and ask for Taylor." He closes his eyes. "Shit Tay, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Your mom opened the door and he shot at her and I ran like a fucking coward."

"Probably would have killed you if you hadn't." Taylo closes his eyes, his voice hesitant, but he steadies himself quickly and there's a lot of his mother's steel in his eyes when he opens them again. It makes something inside John twist painfully.

"Is there anything else. An accent, a scar, something else he said?"

Jamie shakes his head, obviously blinking back tears. "No, he just sounded like a normal guy and it's not like we had a conversation really. Oh, wait!" He brightens and looks over at Taylor. "He had a tattoo. It was on his wrist; when he put the mask on his sleeve rode up and I saw it. It was like a bird and a cross. If you've got some paper then I could draw it."

Taylor rummages around in his backpack, passing over a pen and a battered notebook. Within a couple of minutes his friend has done what John considers a pretty impressive rendering of a bird with its wings outstretched perched on a chunky looking cross. It doesn't look familiar to him, either from gang insignias or political emblems but he snaps a photo of it and sends it on to Finch. Even if it's a one-off sentimental tattoo they might get something to link it to the artist who had inked it.

"Thank-you James, you've been most helpful." Nodding towards the park gate, he waits for Taylor to get up and follow him. Jamie snags the arm of his friends shirt before he can get up.

"Tay, I'm sorry. Truly."

The younger boy nods slowly. "I know, and it wasn't your fault. I might beat the shit out of you tomorrow at school but mom will probably do it for me before I get a chance." He follows Reese to the car without looking back.

It doesn't take long to get to the library. Taylor is quiet and John doesn't feel much like talking either. It's only when he parks in the nearby garage that the teenager speaks.

"I don't get it. Someone wants mom. She's a cop, she pisses bad guys off. I mean it's not like I haven't ever thought that maybe something like this is gonna happen. But how come they knew that Jamie was my friend? I mean I'm not stupid. If someone had been watching me then I'd have known right?"

John doesn't feel the need to answer that particular question. Finch could have the fun of describing The Machine to him all to himself. Instead he turns to the teenager.

"Where we are going you can't ever tell anyone about. Ever."

He expects a retort along the lines of "or what?" and an eye-roll, instead Taylor studies him intently before looking away..

"I'm not stupid," he says quietly. "I don't really know who you are, and the stuff you do isn't legal. It can't be. You don't get that good at using guns without having killed people. But you're helping me and mom so I reckon that makes you one of the good guys. If I wanted to turn you in then I'd have done it at the station."

There's nothing that John can say to that and the clock is ticking, so instead he leads the teenager back around the alley and into the library, locking the door behind them. Behind him he can hear Taylor sneeze as the dust, carefully undisturbed on the tables tickles his nose but the teenager remains quiet until they reach the heart of the operation.

"Mr Reese." Finch moves awkwardly from the wall where he had been pinning several different photographs. His eyes brush over Taylor with a strange mixture of compassion and distrust; tiny nuances that only anyone who truly knew him would recognise. "I see that you've brought a friend."

"Harold Finch meet Taylor Carter. Have you found anything from the picture?"

"A pleasure, Mr Carter, welcome to my humble abode, I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances."

Taylor blinks and gives a weak attempt at a polite smile, his eyes wide as he takes in the computer, the myriad of photographs on the wall and the sheer volume of what John generally describes as "stuff". At least in John's part of the job he mostly only has to carry a gun and a cell phone.

"I've got a hit on the rather exceptional sketch James Kenyon provided," Harold says, turning back to the computer.

"He wants to be an artist," Taylor says, moving forward to see what the eccentric man had pulled up on the screen.

"A worthy ambition," Finch replies absently, fingers tapping too fast to follow on the keyboard. "It's the symbol of a right-wing paramilitary group known as Ember. They used to be part of The Militia movement, but even for them they were a little extreme. Anti-government, conspiracy oriented – they make Waco look like kindergarten. They also had a tendency towards explosives which literally blew up in their faces two years ago. One of their members defected and turned informer against their leader." Harold clicked another file and the face of a man who looked around sixty years old with greying blond hair, weathered skin and defiant dark brown eyes popped up. "This is Owen Banks. A nasty piece of work by all accounts. One of Ember's high ranking officials - when they were active he orchestrated several bombings of civil rights organizations and government buildings. Men , women, children – he didn't discriminate when it came to collateral damage."

"And where is he now?" The "didn't" in Finch's speech didn't escape Reese's notice.

"Dead." Harold tried to choose his words wisely but his neck and his head were killing him and since John had brought Taylor here it wasn't like he'd asked to be put in this situation. His patience not to mention his energy was wearing thin. "There was a hostage situation in Brooklyn. Shots were fired, it seems as though Banks set off a crude bomb made from fertilizer and a few other things he probably sourced from the internet since there was no paper trail. The three men inside were killed, but that was only one cell of the group. There are others out there. They're mostly off the radar and don't trust technology so it's hard to track them, but I did get this."

The file that comes up has obviously been downloaded from a cell-phone and Reese is pretty sure that it came from Fusco. "Detective Carter..." Finch looks apologetically at Taylor. "Your mother, I mean was on the task force bringing Ember down. She was on the front line as it were."

"Is that why they took her?" Taylor asks quietly.

"I think so. If indeed we are on the right track." Harold doesn't look at the teenager behind him. "Mr Reese, if we are going to continue with this line of enquiry then I think it prudent to investigate the late Mr Banks' widow Eileen. According to her bank records she's deposited twenty thousand dollars into her savings account for the past five months and I am yet to find out where she is getting the money from."

"I'm on it." John takes the address that Finch passes him and quickly walks to the bathroom both to check his weapons, change into his biker gear and escape the questions Taylor is bombarding his employer with.

"If you're a weird genius then shouldn't you have like a cat to stroke while you spy on people?" That's the last thing he hears as he slips outside, adjusting his leather jacket over his shoulders. Taylor will be safe with Finch provided that they don't kill each other while he's away. In the meantime Joss is out there somewhere and he's going to find her whatever it takes.

* * *

It's only been half an hour and Finch has already thanked God that he hadn't had children four times. Not that he ever really had the chance what with the obsession with work and then the being legally dead and the crippling pain that blights his day to day life.

Fused vertebrae are less painful than a teenager practically climbing the walls and asking endless questions though, most of which he doesn't want to answer and some of which he can't.

"I find the works of Apuleius soothing in times of trouble," Finch finally says. It's the red book on the top left corner." When Taylor merely gives him a baffled look, he hurriedly backtracks. "Or perhaps Tacitus. The blue book next to it. It has violence and fighting – like a video game only on paper and with words."

"I know what a book is," Taylor says, crossing his arms across his chest. "I'd rather look at that. " He nods at Harold's spare laptop. "How good is the broadband connection here?"

"Exemplary."

"Right. So while you're going through all that..." he waves a hand towards Harold's workstation. "Why don't I start looking up the Ember Group and this Banks asshole. There might be something out there – a forum or or web page. Even if it's old stuff it could help right?"

"It could." Picking up the laptop Finch quickly logs in before passing it over. Any searches made will be re-routed through a secure, untraceable line so letting the boy look for evidence couldn't do any harm. Of course it probably wouldn't do any good either - paranoid extremists didn't tend to leave evidence online after all, but he understands the feeling of helplessness when sitting back and being unable to help when a horrific situation unravelled before him. If Taylor kept busy with the computer at least he wouldn't be tempted to race after Mr Reese and get himself killed while looking for his mother.

_If she was still alive._ And if she wasn't there wasn't anything he could do for Taylor, and he's pretty sure that losing Carter would mean losing Reese as well. Harold turns back to his own computer and starts working once again.

**A/N I usually reply to reviews but I reckoned you'd prefer a quicker update instead. Thankyou very, very much everyone who has given feedback/reviewed and put this story on favourites/alerts. It really is appreciated. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:noting you recognise belongs to me.**

**Trigger warning: there are racist and ant-semitic comments made by characters in this chapter and in the whole story from now on. The things the characters say do not remotely echo my own beliefs which are based on tolerance and equality for all. **

Carter isn't sure how much time has gone by. Struggling to keep hold of consciousness had been a losing fight after her aborted attempt at trying to get free, and for a while she had drifted, dimly aware that there was something that she had to do but without the will or the energy to actually do anything about it. When the fluorescent lights are abruptly switched on and the door to her cell slams open it's so much of a shock that she panics, disorientated, falling onto her wounded shoulder with a cry of pain that awakens every limb that had become blessedly numb from the restraints into a bright supernova of agony. Cheek laid against the cold linoleum, she struggles for breath, wishing for the darkness of unconsciousness again.

Instead someone grabs her by the hair and drags her upwards into a sitting position. It takes a while for her vision to clear, longer still to actually get oxygen back into her lungs, but eventually she can make out the face of the man who eventually lets her hair go so that her head thuds back against the wall.

"Well, well, well, finally the black bitch awakens. Thought my boy had gone a bit over-zealous when he caught you." The tall man squats down infront of her, dark eyes searching hers with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. Joss doesn't say anything, conserving her strength but trying to study both the man infront of her and the two men behind him without either being too obvious about it or arousing their anger. "Bet you didn't expect to see me again Detective Carter."

_Fuck. He knew her. But_ _how? _She searches his face desperately. Maybe early sixties, greying hair, brown eyes – could have been a thousand anonymous people were it not for the scar on his face. What looked like burn marks twisted his mouth into a sneer and made the skin on his left cheek resemble molten wax. There's no way that she would have forgotten a face like that. Despite the fact that the man knows her name she wonders if this is all a terrible mistake by her abductors.

The man narrows his eyes at her obvious confusion. "I look a little different now, not as pretty as I used to be." Shoving up the sleeve of his camouflage print shirt he yanks his wrist up towards Joss so quickly that she flinches. "Maybe this will remind you." It takes a moment for her to recognise the symbol inked upon the thin skin of his forearm. A cross. An eagle. No a phoenix. Memories whirl around her mind before coalescing into a form that fills her with cold fear. Looking up again at the face of the man before her she can see it now. Get past the scarring and the face of Owen Banks is unmistakable.

"You're dead," she whispers.

He laughs, a wholly mirthless sound, before getting up and pacing to the far end of the small cell. The two men he has brought with him, maybe mid-thirties, dressed in camouflage gear look at him with interest, and Joss immediately writes them off as being any sort of help. "You see now," Banks approaches again and looks down upon her. From her position he seems huge, and Joss tries to squash down her panic. "You and your little buddies tried to take us down. Honest Americans, true Americans trying to rid our country of filth like the Jews in the government and the bitches preaching for liberties and the coons who think that they are better than us.." There was spittle forming at the corner of his mouth and his eyes blank before now gleamed with suppressed rage. "You turned one of us against us. You tried to take us down with fire and with bullets, and what do we say to that?" His voice rises to a roar, and behind him the two men cry out on cue "we will rise again!"

"That's the spirit boys," Owen Banks looks at them almost paternally before turning back to the woman slumped beneath him. Bending down, he tucks a strand of sweaty hair from Joss's forehead. She feels the touch of his fingers and fights the urge to spit in his face. "Now you see I have a problem, one that I think you can help me with. Can you be helpful Detective Carter?" His voice is almost kind – somehow that's worse than when he was yelling at her. She tries to keep her voice steady but it still doesn't quite sound like hers when she manages to get past the dryness in her throat to reply.

"I can try."

"I bet you can." He tweaks her nose, and pats her cheek when she flinches away. "You see I need to know where Craig Ward is, the bastard who turned on our group, his country and made all sorts of trouble for me and mine. Somewhere out there he's snuggled up tight as a bug in a rug in witness protection, and it's high time we paid a visit to him."

Joss feels her heart sink. If that's the reason that she's being kept alive then she's utterly screwed. Witness protection is so safely guarded, for damn good reason, that even if she was let loose and had John and his friend helping her with every move it would still be almost impossible to get any details about the informant. Banks must have seen the flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

"Don't worry, I'm not expecting you to show up at FBI headquarters and request a file. I'm going to ask you to request your good friend Detective Fusco to do you a favour."

"Fusco?" The conversation has taken another abrupt swerve into _what-the-fuck_ and Joss is finding it increasingly hard to keep up. Every part of her feels like lead and feeling her eyes start to close, she leans forward slightly and falls back against the wall. The pain in her shoulder is so sharp that she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out, but it clears her head a little, and she glares at her captor defiantly. "What makes you think he can get the information you need, and what makes you think that he'd help me anyway?"

"Well," Banks speaks slowly as though to a small child. "For one he's got contacts on the lets just say dirtier end of the law enforcement family, and for another he's a colleague of yours. Probably makes you two pretty tight. Once I start sending pieces of you to the office and threaten to do the same to his son who should be arriving in oh, a couple of hours, I think he'll turn out to be extremely co-operative. Getting payback on you is just the icing on the cake." Kneeling down he looks at Joss sorrowfully. "You and the rest of your drones really made things difficult for me. We had things going pretty as can be in Brooklyn before you fucked things up." Before she can jerk away he jams his thumb into the flimsy gauze covering her bullet wound and she doesn't even have time to scream before she passes out.

* * *

Reese often takes the motorcycle out on his few and far between days off. There's something about it that's steadying, that almost makes him feel safe, even when he races past trucks that could knock him off the bike and possibly into the next world if either of them made a misjudgement. Perhaps it's the false notion that he is free for at least a little while that makes it so appealing. Even Finch can't get in contact when he's racing the bike down the highway as though the devil himself is behind him.

There is nothing about him that is calm as he dodges between taxis and cars tonight, forcing himself not to run red lights and keep within the speed limit. Getting pulled over by a traffic cop would be beyond idiotic – just the idea of it makes him ease up on the throttle a little although it feels as though he's yanking his panic and fear down like a raging pitbull on a chain. The little song that dances around his head like one of those stupid nursery rhymes: _couldn't save Jessica, won't save Joss. Couldn't save Jessica,won't save Joss, _means that he stops half a block from Eileen Banks's house, both to take the time to conceal the bike in the parking lot of an antiques store that has closed for the night and to calm himself down a little. He mentally counts his weapons, checking that they are located where they should be, and runs quickly through several possible ways of getting information from Mrs Banks starting with charm, mild threats and through to torture that he does not enjoy but is very,very good at. Pulling off his helmet he looks around before locking the bike. It doesn't seem like a bad neighbourhood – the houses are small but well maintained, most of the gardens well looked after. The street is well lit, so it's not hard to find number 31 on Brookes Street. There's a light on in a room at the top left of the small house, from the looks of it the master bedroom. Most of the houses along the street seem to be made from a familiar pattern, and he's broken into more than a few of their type in his time so it's not difficult to guess the layout of the house. The security light is taken out with a quick shot from a silenced pistol, the glass falling noiselessly onto the grass below. Keeping low against the fence John's glad that there isn't a guard dog to deal with when he jumps over the side gate. Finch hadn't warned him of any but he's had a couple of unfortunate surprises when a supposedly dog free abode had turned out to be anything but. He'll shoot a guard dog if he has to, but if forewarned he 'll use a tranquillizer dart given the choice, after all it's not like the dog had a say in what was happening. The only light brightening the small back yard is from the moon and what has filtered through from the street, but it provides enough for him to see well enough to pick the lock to the back door and slide noiselessly into the kitchen.

John waits for a moment, listening intently and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The kitchen is clean and utilitarian, from his position he can see the hallway and a splash of light coming from a room upstairs illuminates the staircase leading up to it. What is also evident is that Mrs Banks is not alone. The faint grunting and moaning emanating from the bedroom makes him fairly certain that he's going to be one of the more terrifying examples of coitus interuptus in recent history. Flicking back the safety catch of his Glock, he pads up the stairs and peers around the corner. The door to the master bedroom is partially opened, within it he can see a man of perhaps fifty with a shaven head enthusiastically pumping away on a bleached blond woman whose cries of ecstasy sound a little forced in John's opinion. Shoving his way inside, Reese grabs the man by the neck and hauls him backwards before slamming his fist into his face. The shaven headed man tumbles back off the bed without so much as a yelp, and John grabs the shocked looking blonde by the arm, pulling her out from beneath the sheets. "Get dressed", he says quietly, "we need to talk."

"Ok, ok." Eileen Banks's eyes are huge as she takes in the gun pointed at her. Sliding back over the bed she bends down to collect her discarded peignoir. "Don't shoot, please, you can have whatever you want."

Skin head Romeo takes the moment that John looks away to come out of his daze and charge forward with a roar, fists swinging. It's not that hard to evade him – Reese steps side ways and backhands him, following it up with a knee to the groin before delivering the knock out blow. Just as Eileen Banks leaps up from the other side of the bed brandishing a knife. There's the snap of bone that could only be her arm breaking as the unconscious man falls heavily upon her, but her scream of agony is abruptly cut off when she goes down beneath him on the bed. Instead she makes a quiet gurgle, and having heard that sound too many times before John feels his blood run cold. Pulling the man off her the reason she's not screaming for help is painfully obvious. The knife she still held was embedded in her chest and more specifically her heart.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ John inwardly swears. _How the hell did he let himself get so sloppy? _There is nothing to be done for Mrs Banks – her eyes are open and glassy, whatever information she may have had died with her. On the arm outstretched on the pillows he can see the same tattoo that Jamie Kenyon had drawn, but when he rolls over her lover he finds that although he has several tattoos of dubious quality he does not sport the cross and phoenix. That didn't bode well either. The Ember group relied on absolute loyalty and security amongst their members and that meant being able to identify them on sight. It would seem that this man was merely a distraction for Eileen Banks while her husband away – the likelihood of him knowing anything at all about the group was extremely unlikely. Quickly tying up the man with the satin sash of the robe that hung on the back of the door, John checks the drawers of the bedside cabinet and then the dresser, searching under clothes and leafing through the books on the small bookshelf. There's nothing useful in the small jewellery box nor taped under any of the furniture. The wardrobe doesn't give up any secrets when he checks the pockets of the clothes within, but spying a shoe-box tucked on the top shelf he reaches up and opens it. Inside is evidence of an alter-ego very different to the image presented by the woman living in the normal house in a respectable neighbourhood. There is about ten thousand dollars bundled up in an elastic band along with two passports for both her and Owen Banks with false identities. Reese pauses a moment when he looks at Owen's photograph. The man in the picture is heavily scarred – apparently he didn't escape the bomb that was supposed to have claimed his life unscathed. There are also some love-letters that reveal nothing more than sentimental proclamations of love and a severely twisted world view but no real information, and at the bottom of the box a leaflet for what appears to be a psychiactric hospital. The paper is old and faded, there is no website or email address on the contacts page only a phone number. However someone has scribbled a mobile number on it in red ink along with several dates starting from the october of last year and continuing roughly twice a month until the last one which was two days ago. Flicking his mobile on Reese gives Finch the name and address of the hospital as well as the mobile number and the dates.

A quick sweep through the rest of the house reveals nothing helpful and so he rings Fusco with the address of Eileen Banks's house and an order that he makes whatever excuse he can for what he finds there. John wipes down his prints before closing and locking the door behind him. Jogging back to his bike he feels the bile churning in his stomach. His best chance at a lead, his best chance at finding Joss is dead because he messed up. He can't let himself wonder that by making this mistake he might have damned her to whatever terrible things the people could be doing to her even now, he can only keep going and pray with whatever tiny fragment of himself believes in God that he's not too late.

**A/N thanks very much for everyone who has got this far for reading, and thanks so much to my kindly reviewing people – it really does serve as encouragement to keep writing (thanks Blacktop for pointing out my mistakes!)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"How goes it Mr Carter?" Harold doesn't take his eyes off the screen in which he's flipping through images with the deft ability of a card shark at a high stakes poker game, but he catches the fuzzy reflection of the boy in the monitor when he looks up. He doesn't need to see the expression on his face when he replies to know that he's scowling though.

"Mr Carter was my dad. My name is Taylor. You know, like everything there is to know, you've gotta know that." Taylor kicks off his sneakers and the resulting aroma of teenage boy feet makes Finch inwardly recoil, but given the circumstances he can afford to be tolerant, even though he's a little suspicious that Carter's son has discarded his footwear just to annoy him.

"As you wish. Taylor it is. Have you found anything of interest?" It's a question borne more out of politeness than anything else. He's in charge of the big guns as it were, letting Taylor play with the laptop is akin to giving him a peashooter, a pat on the head and a promise that he's helping somewhat. Turning awkwardly in his seat, he glances over at the teenager. His legs are crossed, tucked up on the threadbare couch, his brows furrowed with concentration as his fingers fly over the computer keyboard with a swiftness that makes Harold smile despite himself.

"I don't know. Maybe." Taylor chews his bottom lip for a moment, clicking open a couple of tabs that he'd saved. "This Ember group isn't going to be out in the open so I've been trying to get in at entry level you know?"

"Entry level?" Finch frowns – he knows the phrase when it comes to hacking, but the laptop Taylor is using isn't capable of anything like that without other hardware brought into play.

"Yeah. Entry level." The teenager narrows dark brown eyes and focusses back on the computer screen. "See these nutcase groups have to recruit right? Otherwise what's the point – a load of Hitlers with no soldiers on the frontline. They can't do dick unless they brainwash people and its not like they can just go and walk up to people and ask them to join or put posters up or whatever."

"They have to recruit online or by word of mouth."

"Yeah." Taylor gives Harold an exasperated look. "And so I went back to the start – the Ember group started as part as the Militia Movement right? So I started there. There's still messageboards up and some of the members on that haven't changed their user names so I tracked them. Some of them just stopped, but there's one who has a seriously messed up website. Look." He turns the laptop to show an image of an American flag with a list of reasons why the country was currently in danger of being obliterated superimposed upon it. Squinting, Harold counts nine out of ten of the list as being attributable to either Blacks, Arabs or Jews and the last having to do with the homosexualisation of America's youth. "And look." Taylor scrolled down a bit to the image that flickered at the bottom of the page, a phoenix rendered in such poorly done computer graphics that it made Harold's head hurt. "I know it's not the same as the picture in the tattoo, but it's pretty close right? If you could track the site and its near then maybe whoever made it is part of all of this."

"I could. Bring it over here."

It takes Harold a matter of only a couple of minutes to track the website's I.P. address and from there the location of it's owner. "Hmm..." Finch narrows his eyes at the screen as he bounces between registered property deeds, credit history and criminal convictions. "I think you might just have found something here Mr Taylor." the teenager rolls his eyes, but leans in to get a closer look. "The site belongs to a Tobias Poole. Forty-five years old, construction worker, twice divorced, with three convictions of public disorder and one of Grievous Bodily Harm, a crime he spent eighteen months in prison for. The victim was a Vietnamese gentleman by the name of Lam Thai who was apparently set upon for no reason other than his race. He resides in the Bronx and was incarcerated at the time Owen Banks's group did society a favour and blew themselves up. It is quite possible that he has ties with the Ember group." Tapping away quickly he located Tobias Poole's mugshot and enlarged it. The picture of a heavy-set dark haired man with a scowling face appeared on the screen.

"His wrist! Look!" Taylor pointed at the tattoo that was only half visible in the photo. "That's a wing and that's a bit of a cross. It's got to be the Ember sign." Harold zoomed in as closely as he could.

"I think you are right. You may have just provided us with a valuable lead. Good work..." His voice was cut off by the beeping of his cell-phone. Flipping it open and grabbing a pen he quickly scribbled down the information John had found at Eileen Banks's house, frowning at the strain evident in his usually unflappable colleague's voice. "Owen Banks is alive? and Mrs Banks?" Well aware of the teenager sat behind him, Harold settled for a bland "I see, "rather than asking any more questions when Reese gave him a one-word answer.

"Was that John?" Taylor's eyes were bright with hope. "Has he..."

"Mr Reese has information that may help us with our search for your mother." Finch cut him off before he could ask the question he knew was coming. "He will be returning shortly so once again if I could prevail upon your help?"

Taylor gave him a blank look until Harold wrote down the name of Lewilder Hospital. "We need to find out everything we can about this place. Anything you can learn might help."

"Ok." The teenager took the scrap of paper and picked up the laptop. "I'm on it." He didn't ask any further questions for which Finch was both grateful for and provoked a strange paternalistic twinge of worry when he settled down and began typing.

* * *

It didn't take John long to return to the library. For once the traffic seemed to melt out of the way as though it knew he was in a hurry, the traffic lights flicking to green obligingly. Swinging the bike down into the underground garage he tossed the black tarpaulin over it and forced himself to spend a precious ten minutes picking up a large order of Chinese food from the little restaurant at the corner of the block. Finch wasn't going to leave his computers and there was no way that he was letting Taylor out of either of their sights until his mother was found, so unless he provided sustenance they'd be stuck with that box of granola bars in the kitchen that looked like sawdust and tasted worse. _It might take Taylor's mind off things for a few moments as well. _As soon as the idea suggested itself Reese inwardly winced. The only thing that would ease the teenager's mind was to have his mother home safe, and thanks to his reckless behaviour this evening he had put that in jeopardy. The straining plastic bag of boxes handed to him by Kim, the pretty waitress smelled rich and appealing, but although he hadn't eaten for at least eleven hours John couldn't summon up any enthusiasm for food. The crimson of the sweet and sour sauce leaking from one of the containers reminded him of the blood splatter on the wall in Carter's apartment, and it was with a dim sort of hopelessness that he wondered what was happening to her. He'd withstood torture before, could time almost to the hour the precise moment when sanity stretched like a fraying elastic band in an effort to escape the pain. He also knew what happened to women when they were helpless, and it was an effort to push those thoughts away. Letting his mind wander down that dark path would throw him even further off his game, and he'd already let his emotions get the better of him to the detriment of the mission. For Joss's sake he had to forget that he was her friend and look at the situation as though she were any other target.

Making his way up the stairs to Finch's office, he wasn't really surprised not to hear much chatter emanating from the room. Given the amount of questions Taylor had been throwing at Harold and the older man's look of vague panic at being left alone with a teenager, he wondered briefly if they'd killed each other. It was a little odd then that when he entered the room both his employer and the kid looked up at him from their computers with identical I-don't-want-to-be-interrupted expressions. Stifling a smile he put the take-out on the corner. "I brought food," he announced somewhat redundantly.

"Cool." Taylor immediately went back to typing. "We're looking up that hospital place you found out about. Do you reckon mom's there?" Before Reese could answer, Finch interrupts him, his voice sharp.

"Mr Reese, it appears that things have suddenly become a little more complicated. We have another number."

_Well why not, _John thinks to himself. _When everything was going to hell then fate usually took the opportunity to kick you in the ribs._ "Who?" He asks, moving over to Harold and peering at the computer . There's an image of a boy who looks to be perhaps in his early teens. Brown eyes, brown hair. Something about him looks vaguely familiar but he can't quite place where he's seen him before.

"_Lee Fusco." _Finch solves that mystery immediately_. "Detective Fusco's son."_

Now he has a name, the resemblance to the Detective is obvious and John's mouth goes dry. "This can't be a coincidence. First Carter now Fusco's son. Where is he? We need to get to him and his mother first."

"On it Mr Reese." Harold's fingers patter over the keys to a rhythm only he knows. "I have an address, and from the traffic camera down the street all seems quiet. I suggest you alert Detective Fusco and inform him of the danger. If he can impress upon his family to pack quickly I'll arrange a safe house; I'm thinking the Manhatten Blue Hotel. I'll inform you of the particulars once you have picked them up."

John nods and grabbing his phone out of his pocket quickly dials Lionel Fusco's number. The Detective answers on the second ring, his gruff voice both eager and wary when he asks "any news on Carter?" without bothering with a greeting.

"Not yet." Reese keeps his voice low and steady and does not allow the other man to interrupt. Fusco's first instinct will be to run and protect his family, but sympathise as he does, he cannot allow that to happen. "I need you to listen to me and do exactly what I say." On the other end of the phone line Fusco gives a disbelieving snort.

"Yeah, like I've ever had a choice in that department. What do you need?"

"I need you to call your ex wife and have her pack a suitcase for her and your son for at least a couple of days. They're in danger and I'm going to take them to a safe house."

There's a long silence before Fusco finally speaks, and when he does his voice is thick with fear. "Someone's after Lee and Abby? Who? What's going on?"

"We're not sure yet, but at a guess it's probably linked to Carter's abduction. You need to tell them to pack quickly and not open the door to anyone except me. Give them the password "Big Brother"as a safe word to open the door."

"The hell with that." Fusco says angrily. "I can protect my family – I'll get them myself, they can come home with me."

"You can't protect them like we can." John's voice is firm but not unkind. "Whoever it is behind this is watching you, relying on getting the upper hand probably to make you their pawn."

"Well you'd know all about that," the Detective spits.

"I would." Reese doesn't take offence at what is an obvious truth. "But you know that when I promise to keep people safe they stay safe. I swear that I won't let anything happen to your family, but you have to let me handle this. You'll be kept informed every step of the way but you have to ring them now. There may not be much time left. Don't try and contact them on your landline or your own mobile - they may be compromised. When they're safe I'll give you a number you can reach them on."

"Alright." Even through the scratchy reception John can hear Lionel give a sigh of defeat. "But just so you know if anything happens to them I'll hunt you down and kill you."

"If anything happens to them I'll let you." Clicking off the phone, Reese turns his attention back to Finch. Taylor has padded over and is peering over the older man's shoulder at what looks like a GPS route tracking a vehicle through the Brooklyn streets.

"Young Mr Taylor has had an epiphany regarding the threat to Lee Fusco it seems." With a frown Harold brings up a tab showing a dark haired man's mug shot. "Mr Reese meet Tobias Poole; a member of the Ember organization, and currently driving in a direction that looks suspiciously as though it might lead towards the residence of the ex Mrs Fusco and her son."

"I figured if he was out there and no-one suspected him – I mean he's got a job and everything – the Ember people need someone who could do stuff on the outside." Taylor said excitedly, "so Data here," John pretended not to see Finch's wince at the nickname "checked and tracked the GPS on his car. C'mon no-one goes out this time at night for anything good."

"Nice work Taylor, Data." John turned around before Finch could give him his glare of death. He didn't need any more ammo for his Glock, but he picked up one of his lighter weight rifles along with a small tranquillizer gun on the way out. Bounding down the stairs and into the night, he thinks back wistfully at the Ferrari that had met a somewhat mangled end in pursuit of a gang of drug dealers a couple of weeks ago before unlocking the blue Honda and flooring the accelerator. The Fusco's house was a good ten minutes nearer to him that it would take Tobias Poole to get there, and since Finch was keeping track of the Ember operative's GPS it was easy to park a little way down the road and wait for him to arrive. Crouching in the shadows of a sycamore tree in the garden of a house that was opposite the Fusco's neat but nondescript house, Reese didn't have to wait long before a dark blue Toyota idled to a stop a few feet away from him. Even though the street lights didn't provide much light Tobias Poole was easy to recognise. Stepping out of his vehicle, he struggled for a moment as he tried to pull a ski mask out of his back pocket. Obviously he had bought the jeans when he didn't have quite so much of a paunch. Keeping his rage in check, John took a deep breath before stepping out of the shadows. "You should keep in better shape, Tobias," he said quietly. "You're supposed to be one of the saviours of America after all."

The man whirled around wide eyed, dropping the mask to the ground and wholly unprepared for the blow that broke his nose. John pulled him up by his shirt and kneed him in the stomach, feeling a primal satisfaction as the man sagged whimpering breathlessly to the floor.

"Where's Detective Carter," he growled. The man looked bemused for a moment, bubbles of blood receding and then popping from his broken nose before he finally understood the question. Panting hard he gave a grin of triumph. "By now you should be asking which bit of her is where." His voice was breathless but his eyes gleamed with vindictiveness. "Did you have a thing for the black bitch, race-traitor? You..."

John stamped on the man's knee, feeling the bone crunch beneath his boot and shoving a hand over his mouth to muffle the scream of agony. He was so far beyond rage that he felt strangely calm. Punching the man and knocking him out, he tossed the limp body over his shoulder and dumped it into the trunk of the Honda, sealing Tobias's mouth with tape and tying his arms and legs before slamming the hood shut. There wasn't much blood on him, but he wiped his knuckles on his jacket just in case and attempted to steady himself before walking up the path and knocking on the door to Abigail and Lee Fusco's home.

"Who's there?" The female voice that came from within would have sounded fairly confident to someone who didn't have Reese's experience. When he gave the password she kept the safety chain on the door and he gave her extra points for doing so, only removing it when he dialled Lionel's number and passing her the phone getting the Detective to vouch for him. Lee looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and distrust, keeping close to his mother in the strange way boys have of wanting to be both protective and protected but did as he was told without many questions. When Abigail Fusco asked if they should put their suitcases in the trunk of the car Reese demurred,saying that it was already full of garbage he had to dispose of. Dropping them off at the hotel he made sure that they were settled under their temporary aliases before bidding them farewell with all the charm he could muster and driving both he and Tobias Poole to a very deserted, very anonymous warehouse by the docks.

**A/N: I can't find a reference as to the name of Fusco's ex-wife so I've called her Abigail/Abby for the purposes of this story. If someone knows what it actually is then please let me know and I'll change it! Thank-you kindly to everyone who is reading this and hugs to my lovely reviewers :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Tobias Poole had the audacity to remain stubbornly unconscious, even after Reese had hauled him out of the trunk of his car and tied him to a threadbare office chair that had been left in the abandoned warehouse. Although the business he conducted at the docks was usually somewhat less than palatable and definitely far from legal, John rather liked the place. Even in daylight few people hung around this stretch of decaying buildings, and the reflection of the city lights on the water was pretty, even if the smell was not. Now however the adrenaline flowing through him was keying up his anxiety and maintaining control took more effort than it should have done. Eyeing the slumped form of his prisoner, the crackle of Finch's voice in his ear bud was a welcome distraction.

"Mr Reese?"  
Harold at least sounded calm, and that in turn calmed John a little. The eccentric billionaire was far from heartless and had none of his training when it came to dealing with death as a matter of course. If Harold wasn't panicking then he wasn't about to tell him that Joss was dead. "Any new developments Finch?"

"As a matter of fact we do have something." Even over the poor reception Reese could almost sense Harold's excitement. The use of "we" didn't escape him either. For a brief moment he imagined Taylor in a Boy Wonder outfit before dismissing the idea. Taylor was a brave kid, but asking him to wear spandex was probably pushing it too far. "The pamphlet you found at Eileen Owen's house has proven to be more useful than first thought. The Lewilder Institute ceased functioning as psychiatric hospital twenty years ago, but the building still stands. Attempts to re-purpose it have been stymied by legal battles between the state and the landowners, and after a particularly nasty chemical spill from a nearby factory rendered the soil toxic it's essentially been abandoned."

"The perfect place for a far right organisation to base themselves," Reese said grimly.

"My thoughts exactly. If they do have power, and I believe they must have – from satellite images it looks as though they have the lights running at least - it's by generator. There's nothing being billed to any of the electricity companies and no security cameras close enough to help. When the factory closed down essentially the mile square area of land became a wasteland."

"How far away is it?" John felt his pulse quicken. "Any idea of the number of people there?"

"Negative Mr Reese. The Ember group have a serious aversion to technology. I'm getting faint traces of cell phone activity in the area but even after trying to clean up the signals it's sketchy. They're either re-routing or using a scrambler. I'll send you a map of the hospital and the surrounding area, but you're going to need further intel before you go in. It's a big place with a lot of outbuildings and given their history the Ember group have probably made provisions incase they are attacked."

"That's alright." John looked over at Tobias Poole who was lifting his head and opening his eyes blearily. "I've got a friend here who's just dying to tell me what we need to know."

* * *

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Carter keeps her eyes shut and tries to will her body to relax. Whatever news Owen Banks has just received it's sent him into an almost incoherent rage and he was scary enough when he was in a fairly good humour. Pretending that she's still unconscious seems like the smartest thing to do for the moment while she works out what is going on. One of Ember's followers who dresses as though he's in the military but doesn't hold his gun properly is saying something about an agent Delta going missing along with the targets. From the resulting crash she can only imagine that something, and given the circumstances she hopes it's the young man, has collided violently with either a table or the door.

"We've had no fucking contact with Poole. If the plan had gone south he would have called and when I tried to reach my wife I got some NYPD bastard at the end of the phone. Would you like to explain that Chester, because from where I'm standing it's looking an awful lot like someone's been telling stories to people they shouldn't have."

"I don't.. I don't.." The previously cock-sure young man sounds like a gibbering wreck, and Joss doesn't blame him for losing it. The unmistakable sound of crunching bone and the ensuing screams of pain make her flinch, but she gets a hold of herself quickly and forces herself to remain still. If Banks was turning on his own men then he'd tear her apart in a heartbeat if she attracted his attention.

"I need Fusco on board with this, and that means I need leverage!" A tentative "Sir, I don't think.." from one of the younger men was met with a snarl and a "get the fuck back to the parameter fence where you are supposed to be," before Owen resumed berating his hapless recruit. "The black bitch in there isn't going to be enough to get him on side. You were the one in contact last with Poole. Now he's missing and Fusco's kid is in the wind. And.." The heavy thump of a boot against flesh was unmistakable even if it hadn't been accompanied by a howl of pain. "The fucking police have my wife. I'm thinking that you've taken a leaf out of Ward's book and turned snitch."

"I didn't I swear, I didn..." The panicky begging is abruptly cut off with a gunshot and Joss feels her blood turn to ice water.

When Owen Banks speaks again his voice is calmer. "Bury him out back. We may have company soon so stay alert. Matthews I want you to check in with the guards at the north fence, Spencer you're to monitor the boys at the south. Anything bigger than a rat gets near then it gets put down, and that includes traitors to the cause if anyone is getting itchy feet."

There were murmurs of agreement before everything went quiet again, and after waiting to make sure that she was truly alone Joss opens her eyes cautiously. She was still trapped, but for the first time since she had been captured she felt the fragile blossom of hope start to bloom within her. Owen Banks had needed Fusco's son to blackmail him, but obviously the boy had evaded capture and the person sent to grab him was missing. That meant that either the Ember recruit had changed his mind which was frankly unlikely, or the plan had been foiled by a third party. The image of Reese standing over her like a guardian angel in a dark alleyway while her chest burned from the impact of a bullet to her kevlar vest flashed into her mind. _You're never alone._ The memory dims the pain in her shoulder and ribs a little. She just has to hold on a little longer and wait for him.

* * *

Fusco isn't particularly pleased with Reese's plan when he is informed of his part of it, but nonetheless he agrees without too much grumbling. Whether that's due to gratitude for saving his son and ex-wife, the realization that arguing won't do any good or sheer exhaustion John isn't sure, but he's not curious enough to question it and already has far too much on his mind already to wonder about it.

When he returned back to the library Finch barely glanced at him before printing out a couple of sheets of paper showing the Lewilder Hospital with various entry and escape strategies highlighted in different colours according to the difficulty of use. Green being the front and rear main and emergency exits, yellow including having to smash windows or gain access to the roof, and red involving air vents, the cellar and an old sewage pipe. Reese memorises the information quickly before realising that he himself is being studied.

"There's blood on you," Taylor says, looking at him with narrowed brown eyes. "Did you get into a fight with that guy who wanted Fusco's kid?"  
John isn't sure if beating the crap out of Tobias Poole really counts as "getting into a fight", but since there wasn't time to argue semantics he nods. "He had information we needed."

"So you know where mom is right?"

"It looks that way." John is already shrugging his jacket off and unbuttoning his shirt, going through a silent mental check-list of what he needs to take with him. Glancing at Harold who is waiting patiently for answers, he tosses the shirt and grabs a t-shirt from the cupboard at the back of the room. "According to Mr Poole the main base is in the nurses station at the west of the building. There are guards stationed at the main access points to the hospital but no more than fifteen people there in total. I'm going to go in, get Joss out and Fusco is going to follow with the cavalry."

"That guy just told you all of that?" Taylor looks confused. "How d'you know that you can believe him?"

"I can be very persuasive," John says shortly, ditching his dress pants for black combats and lacing up his well worn army boots. "I'm going to need you to keep track on what the NYPD is doing," he adds, looking up at Finch. "I want to get in as quietly as possible and get her out of the way before they storm the place and bullets start flying."

"Yes, heaven knows we're all well aware of your aversion to firearms," Harold said wryly, watching as John reloaded his Glock, tucked several extra rounds into various pockets along with a couple of flash bombs, grenades and removed an AK-47 rifle from behind a pile of old National Geographic magazines.

"I want to..."

"No." Reese interrupts Taylor before he can finish the sentence. "I need you here. Your mom needs you here." His expression softens a little as he passes the teenager, briefly squeezing his shoulder. "I'm going to bring her back."

"Swear it." Taylor might be young but his eyes are fierce and bright, the body he hasn't yet grown into trembling with rage and fear. "Tell me she's coming back."

"I swear." John keeps his voice steady, but inwardly he wonders if it is a promise that he can truly keep. If Joss is still alive, and to believe otherwise is unthinkable, he's not sure what state he's going to find her in. Grabbing his jacket he hurries down the stairs before the kid asks anymore questions. The motorbike's engine purrs when he lets her loose and guides it down the highway, relaxing slightly as he settles into a more familiar mindset. He has a plan now, he has a tangible enemy and he has a goal. This is what he is trained for, this is what he knows. Stopping a quarter of a mile from the Lewilder Institute he carefully tucks his bike a little way down an obviously ill-used bridle-path along with his helmet, before ducking through a collapsing wooden fence and skirting around the boundary of an overgrown field. The first light of dawn is a blush of pink and gold on the horizon making everything seem hazy and slightly unreal. The long grass is wet with dew and quickly soaks his pants, but Reese doesn't pay much attention, more intent on scanning his surroundings. The abandoned factory is a concrete monolith on the top of the gently sloping hill, all stark lines and shadows upon the acres of yellow grass that it had poisoned. To the east the woodland had recovered somewhat, spindly pine trees becoming more luxuriant the further away from the factory they grew. Within the dark greenery what used to be Lewilder Institute nestled as though in hiding, a large stone building surrounded by several single story constructions, one of whose windows glowed a sulphur yellow.

It wasn't hard to spot the guard leaning against the fence bordering the Lewilder property. Even without the flare of his lighter as he lit a cigarette the idiot was out in the open and obviously not paying attention. He didn't even have enough time to turn around before John knocks him out, drags him into the trees and hog-ties him with his own belt. Getting closer to the Institute John pauses, cloaked in the darkness provided by the pine trees. The main building is dark and shabby from disuse, his real target the much smaller building back and slightly to the left of it. There are two guards posted outside the main structure and another pair talking outside what must be the nurse's station. Circling around to the back of the institute, it's only an unfortunate misstep upon a brittle twig that alerts another guard to his presence. Turning, the young blond haired man raises his gun, but wild eyed and panicky, the first shot goes wide, and Reese is upon him before he has a chance to fire another. With the adrenaline roaring through his veins, every sense overly alert it's an effort not to snap the boy's neck and instead merely knock him out and take the cartridge from his weapon instead. Most of the windows at the rear of the building are broken so it's easy for John to pull the pin from a grenade and toss it into a first floor window before ducking back into the trees. The explosion is obscenely loud in the quiet of the morning, chunks of old stone flying down onto the grass in ragged chunks. The guards at the front of the house race around to the source of the attack, too fast to slow themselves when Reese tosses a flash bomb at them. They go down hard and don't get up again, the two men who had followed them from the nurse's station flinching back, blinded and dazed. John deals with them quickly, breaking cover before they gather their wits and doing the optimum amount of non-lethal damage in the shortest possible time.

"Finch? How long have I got?"

Harold knows better than to talk to John on a mission like this unless he's contacted first – the last thing Reese needs is his cover being blown by an ill-timed conversation. The relief in his voice is obvious when he responds however.

"The SWAT teams are mobilising, you've got perhaps ten minutes. According to Detective Fusco they're coming in from the north road and the factory road to the west. If you hurry then retreating the way you came should keep you clear of trouble."

"Thanks Finch. I'll be in contact later."

"Good luck Mr Reese."

Unhooking his rifle from his shoulder, John ducks behind a crumbling stone wall and waits for the two guards throwing open the door of the nurse's station and running towards the explosions to provide an easy target. They are young, undisciplined and obviously untrained. John shoots each of them in the leg, careful to avoid major arteries, before tossing their weapons through the broken window of a locked up outbuilding and making his way towards the hub of the Ember group's operation.

While nowhere near as big as the main building of the institute the nurse's station is still large enough to give John pause. Stepping sideways and ducking behind the cover of the doorway of an office, he scans the area around him carefully. The light dissipates halfway down the hall-way, fading into black – there are a thousand places in the darkened doorways for a sniper to fire. Easing his way around the corner and keeping his finger curled around the rifle's trigger, it's only a subtle movement of black on shadow that gives him the time to duck before a volley of bullets slam into the wall where his head had been a mere second before. Rolling away, Reese returns fire, the thunder of the gunshots echoing and ricocheting against the concrete. The shape of a man races towards the fire escape, zig-zagging to escape the bullets before throwing himself at the emergency exit and shoving it open. Prepared to chase after him, John stops himself. Glancing at his watch he estimates that he has only four or so minutes before the SWAT team descends and he has to evacuate. The man can wait, he has to find Joss first.

It doesn't take long to locate her. The generator can't run much more than a third of the lights in the building and so the Ember group has shut down or disconnected most of the electricity in the building. Only nine rooms have light, and it's in the third one that John finds Joss. For a moment he doesn't dare open the door. When he catches a glimpse of her through the window slumped on the floor, bloodied and still he feels his heart stop, everything within him frozen solid. She looks dead. _Too late again – why did you ever think that you could save her? _the voice in his head mocks, but he forces himself to turn the key still in the lock and push the heavy door open. Kneeling before her he touches her cold cheek.

"Joss?" It's not so much a question as a prayer, a benediction, a desperate hope that whatever is in charge of fate is listening.

She doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. He doesn't even have the energy left to cry. Instead brushing the clumps of sweat soaked hair from her cheeks he kisses her forehead. It takes a moment for him to register the tickling of her eye-lashes against his neck, and longer still to realise that the woman beneath him is stirring. Pulling away he watches as her dark eyes open, looking at him in bewilderment.

"Hey." His voice doesn't sound like his own, and she's looking at him as though she's never seen him before.

She swallows hard. "Hey yourself." Her usually husky voice is as raspy as sandpaper, and if he had the time John would get her a glass of water, hell he'd travel to Switzerland to the source of that mineral water that she liked, fill a paper cup with it and bring it back to her if she wanted. Finch's voice in his ear is urging him to get out of there immediately though, and in a couple of minutes the SWAT team as well as the paramedics would be there to take care of her. He could save her life but he couldn't save her reputation if she was found with him.

"Help will be here in a moment, just hang on."

"Tay?" Her hand comes out to catch his wrist as he tries to move away.

"He's fine. He's safe."

She smiles a little at that. "My guardian angel," she murmurs, "I knew that you'd come for me." Her eyes slip shut again, but checking her pulse Reese is relieved to find it slow and steady. Running a thumb over her cheek he reluctantly gets up, making sure to keep the door to her open as he jogs down the corridor, out of the building and into the early dawn light.

**A/N thanks so much for everyone who is still reading this, and extra thanks to my kind reviewers – you are author fuel ;) (also yeah, bit mushy at the end, but in my defense I have tortured them both for five chapters. I think about three more to go.)**

**Just a quick heads up. Due to FFnet's daft new policy some "M" rated fics are getting deleted and in some cases their authors banned. If a "M" rated story you liked is now missing then that's probably why. In response to this some of us are also posting our stories elsewhere in case of problems. I and a few other POI writers are now posting at thehookupzone dot net slash POI slash index dot php (just exchange "slash" for / and "dot" for .). **

**Thanks Maddsgirl75 for the info.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognize belongs to me.**

Joss's alarm clock is beeping, telling her to wake-up, but for some reason her eyes don't want to open. Trying to struggle to consciousness is a bit like swimming through thick soup; she's aware of her limbs but they don't seem to be working when she tries to move them and her mouth is dry, her tongue a sticky thing adhered to the roof of her mouth. For a moment she's eighteen again, waking up hungover and nauseous after drinking half a bottle of tequila at a friend's birthday party. But that was long ago, and teenage follies are lessons long since learned. When eventually she manages to crack open her eyes she winces at the bright light that sears her retinas and promptly closes them again.

"Mom?" That's Taylor's voice. Rough with tiredness and concern, but blessedly familiar. Joss forces her eyes open again and turns her head towards the teenager sat by her bed. _He looks older_ she thinks. _He might still have her eyes but there is an echo of his father in the line of his jaw now, the width of his shoulders. There's a firm resolve beneath the worry that is anything but childish. She's not sure what she thinks about that. _Wincing, she tries to sit up before her body tells her in no uncertain terms that is a very bad idea, and forces her to drop her head back onto the pillow. Not an alarm clock but a heart monitor had woken her, and she doesn't need the strange antiseptic smell of the bedlinen or the scratchy cotton of her hospital gown to work out where she is. She's woken up in similar institutions before, although this is the first time that Taylor has been by her bedside.

"Hey you." Her voice comes out scratchy and low. "You okay?"

Her son fumbles with a plastic cup, poking a straw through the lid. "It's water," he says offering it to her. "You're allowed that right? Or should I ask a nurse or something..."

Carter solves his dilemma by placing the hand that actually seems to be working on his wrist and finding the straw with her lips. The cool liquid sliding down her throat is heavenly, but she forces herself to stop after a few sips. She knows what response her body will give if she takes too much water when she's obviously dehydrated.

"Thanks Tay." She gives him as decent a smile as she can muster. The events of the past... how long has she been out of it? Were coming back and Joss makes a quick inventory of herself. She can move her legs and her right arm. The left is strapped across her chest, the corner of a piece of gauze taped to her shoulder peeking out from under the neckline of her gown. She can wiggle her fingers though so she doesn't think that either her collarbone or scapula can have been broken by the bullet that hit her at her apartment. The dreamy wooziness from painkillers is an indicator that pain is merely being kept at bay, but she'll take the respite while she can. Allowing her mind to drift back into tempting sleep isn't an option though – she's been shot, she's in a hospital and there will be someone asking questions as soon as they are aware that she's awake. She hunts for a memory of how she came to be here, but comes up with nothing but John Reese, his grey eyes achingly tender as he stroked her cheek and told her to hang on in a cold room with iron bars on the windows. It seems too real to be a dream and yet somewhat unreal too – a ghost she had conjured to keep herself sane.

"John saved you." Taylor is obviously psychic or maybe her confusion is just that easy to read upon her face, Joss thinks. "I mean me and Data, I mean Finch helped, but it was mostly John. He took out the bad guys at that place where you were being held and Fusco and his SWAT people went in after and found you." He reaches out and grabs her hand. "I was so scared Mom. I thought..." He looks away, those beautiful dark eyes liquid with tears.

"Hey." She squeezes his fingers, rubbing her thumb over his palm. "I'm ok, we're ok. I'm so sorry you had to go through that baby." A sudden chill runs through her. "You said Detective Fusco was there? Were there any other prisoners found with me?"

Taylor shakes his head. "No." Realizing what his mother is thinking he gives a small smile. "Did they tell you about trying to kidnap Fusco's son? They really messed up there. John got the guy out first – he got intel from him too about where you were. I think the kid and his mom are in a safe house or something."

_Reese to the rescue once again, _the thought is both reassuring and troubling. She knows that he has Finch to look out for him, but a voice in an earpiece won't save him from a bullet. Would she even know if he died, and if he did what name if any he would be buried under? The thought makes her sick, and she feels the water in her stomach churn uncomfortably.

"Mom?" Taylor looks at her worriedly, but Joss is saved from having to answer by a soft knock on the door. Lionel Fusco enters looking utterly exhausted but gives her a smile before putting a somewhat battered bunch of tulips on the bedside table.

"How're you doing?" Taylor gets up, ostensibly to get a vase from the windowsill, but nudging the plastic chair towards the detective as he does so. The older man sinks into it with a groan, and with the benefit of ten hours of unconsciousness and some heavy duty painkillers his partner can't help smiling.

"Better than you I reckon, you look like sh..." Suddenly remembering that her son is in the room, she hurriedly amends her language. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."

Taylor rolls his eyes at her, dumping the wilting flowers into a plastic container. "I'm going to get a soda, you two can talk without scaring the children while I'm not here." Despite the irritated tone of voice he still kisses his mother on the cheek before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

"What went down?" Joss asks, meeting Fusco's tired eyes. "How'd you find me?"

"How d'ya think?" the Detective runs a hand through his short brown hair. "Our all-seeing man in a suit gives me enough intel to get the Captain on the phone with SWAT. We get there and there's eight men from that asshole militia group either unconscious or bleeding around the place and you passed out in one of the other buildings. You don't want to know the amount of questions I've had to field about it – giving a couple of SWAT teams a mission and a load of weapons and then not letting them shoot anyone? Not good for interdepartmental relations."

"Did they get Owen Banks?"

Fusco is obviously so tired that it takes a moment for him to process the question. "Oh dead, but not dead guy. Nah, at least not yet. He wasn't any of the jackasses that got rounded up at Lewilder anyway. There's NYPD's best chatting to some of his friends – the ones that aren't in surgery, but it looks like he bolted. I don't reckon he'll get far with a face like his; the photo on his fake passport at his wife's house is already being sent to border police, airports, you name it."

"His wife? Is she in custody?" Joss can remember the mad man ranting about the cops answering the phone at his house.

"More like the morgue." Fusco winces. "She and the guy she was banging on the side got a bit knife happy if you get what I mean."

Carter doesn't but she's not actually sure that she wants to know and so doesn't push the issue. "How's your kid?" She asks eventually.

"Good." Relief smooths the wrinkles from Lionel's forehead a little, and the look in his eyes is one that she would probably recognise if she looked in a mirror Joss realises. "He and his mom are a bit shook up but they're safe. They'll be ok."

She nods, a part of her wanting to reach over and touch his hand in understanding. He's sat on the side of her bad arm though and they haven't really gotten close enough to let their guards down that much around each other yet. "I'm glad."

"Yeah. Me too." The silence stretches awkwardly.

"Thanks for helping me Lionel." Carter keeps her voice quiet as though by using his first name he might run away. "I'm lucky to have had you watching my back."

The older man looks uncomfortable, the rubber pegs attached to the chair legs squeaking noisily against the linoleum as he shifts his weight. "I didn't do much. Just followed orders. We didn't know dick about where you were until our mutual friends got in touch."

They both look up when Taylor opens the door and steps into the room, licking the condensation from a can of Pepsi from his fingers.

"Well, yeah, anyway, I'm glad you're going to be alright. I'll make sure you don't miss out on any of the paper work while you're away." Fusco gets up, gives Joss a faint smile and Taylor an awkward but friendly pat on the shoulder before leaving.

When her son offers her another drink of water she accepts it and settles back to listen to what her son has been doing in her absence. Of course none of it will go into the debriefing that she will inevitably have to give to her superiors, but given the circumstances she can live with it.

* * *

Cleaning up Joss's apartment didn't take as long as John thought it would. Granted he'd been there before – both to plant and then remove bugs around the place when neither the Detective or her son was there and so he knew his way around the place. Disinfectant, cloths, carpet cleaner was under the sink, paper towels on the sideboard. For a man whose life depended on knowing his enemy it was strange but irresistible to study a friend – intimacy by subterfuge. He knew that Carter washed up the breakfast dishes but didn't dry them until she got home from work, that her bed was made with the neat folds of a military veteran used to inspection, and that there was a small collection of expensive shoes with killer heels at the bottom of her wardrobe that he spent far too much time picturing what she looked like when she was wearing them. Little bits of the puzzle of Joss collected in his mind – fragments really compared to the few moments when she had truly let him see her. The pride and love she had for her son, her fierce loyalty. The look she had given him full of infinite regret when she had slammed the car door shut while he had bled from Snow's bullet in the back seat of Finch's car.

He tackles the blood stain on the wall first. Even if he's not actually in the same room as it he knows it's there. A reminder of how close things had been, how close he came to losing her. Fusco keeps him updated every hour or so – the SWAT team were good, the paramedics better. Carter's going to be fine. People are asking questions but there's no evidence linking him to the scene apart from confused and contradictory witness statements. John's grateful for the information but it can't really calm him. He knows that he can't go to the hospital when it's crawling with both NYPD and SWAT employees, but that doesn't make the knowledge easy to accept. Owen Banks has disappeared off the radar, gone but not forgotten. With no money or soldiers and with most of the New York Police department looking for him he's not an immediate threat and there is no way of finding him unless he reaches out to one of his old contacts or turns up on a security camera. Neither of these scenarios looked likely to happen anytime soon, and after pacing around the library like an ill tempered tiger Finch had eventually tired of him and suggested repairing the Carters' home for their return. That was at least something useful he could do.

The lamp in the sitting room is broken beyond repair, but it's generic, obviously not an heirloom, it can be replaced easily. John dumps it with the rest of the garbage outside the building waiting to be picked up. The dining room table is of better quality, but thankfully not as damaged. It doesn't take long to wrest the skewed leg back into place and give the whole thing a bit of a polish. Sweeping up the broken glass is easy, as is working out how to use the ancient vacuum cleaner. He hesitates when it comes to Joss's bedroom, eventually deciding not to do much but turn down the comforter ready for when she returns. Slumping down on the couch, utterly exhausted, he looks at his watch. Carter is supposed to be released in the evening so long as she gets the all clear. It's only three o clock; plenty of time to go home, check in with Finch and come back later. The thoughts have barely crossed his mind before he falls asleep.

* * *

Joss is tired and sore by the time she's trekked up the stairs to her apartment. There's a plain clothes cop in a car outside the building just incase Owen Banks comes after her, but she can't really see the point in it. She's not answering the door to anyone without her gun handy ever again, even if it does mean scaring the crap out of Jehovah's Witnesses. Taylor has been dropped off at his grandmother's by Fusco, and although she already misses him, Joss knows it's for the best. They're ok, she's proud and a little bewildered at all that he had done to get her home, but he's still just a teenager. Grams's house is comforting, familiar and above all normal. If she lied a little and said that she was needed down the precinct then it was only a little lie. She didn't want him coming home to God knows what state their home was in. She'll get things straight, order pizza and one of those terrible Transformer movies that he likes tomorrow and they can curl up on the couch together. Just mom and cub, the way it's always been. If she can't use her left arm because of the sling then it doesn't matter – Taylor never lets her have the remote anyway.

Turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open she pauses. The sun has almost gone down but the blinds she hadn't closed in the living room let a pattern of yellow gold stripes spill onto the beige carpet and over the couch and easy chairs, the clean table and hallway. Even from the doorway it's clear that the place has been tidied up, and the big figure slumped at the far end of the couch leaves no question of the identity of who had done so. Carter usually moves quietly – stealth has saved her life on more than one occasion both in combat and back home while in the force. This time she's extra vigilant however. The smallest noise will probably wake the man sleeping in her home, and just for a moment she wants him to herself, utterly unguarded. The latch of the door slips back sweetly and silently, and tugging off her boots awkwardly with one hand, she pads over and leans against the side of the chair Taylor usually claims.

When Reese is awake there's usually too much going on to really look at him. Oh yes she knows he's handsome, knows that he knows it and either rolls her eyes at his arrogance or wants to strangle him for pushing her past the black and white of her moral boundaries and into shades of grey that don't fit well with the person she has always thought herself to be. She's not a silly girl who has her head turned by a pretty face. She's not stupid enough to let herself get used. He'll save her life but he won't give her anything but the bare minimum when she asks him questions.

Watching him sleep, curled up and vulnerable on her couch, Joss studies him closely. He's tall, he's well built, he's too thin. _Who cooks for him? When does he eat? _The question bothers her. He doesn't fit on the couch at all – one leg curled under the other, he's sprawled more than sat on the low leather cushions, one cheek resting on an ugly paisley cushion that Taylor had bought for her a couple of mother's days ago. His imperfection is somehow harder to take in than the dismissive "handsome man, not my type" category she had tried to shove him into. His nose is a little off centre, his forehead a little too high. Those long black lashes brush his cheekbones, his chest rising and falling in a quiet, steady rhythm. She wonders when he last got any sleep. She wonders what the cost to him is for saving people like her and her son. Waking him would be a good idea – he'll be stiff as hell in the morning and probably has other places to be. Instead of shaking his shoulder Joss goes to the closet and pulls out one of Taylor's old camping blankets. John doesn't stir until she tucks the fabric around his shoulders. His brow furrows and he mutters something in his sleep, one hand gripping the edge of the couch, lost in a dream she dares not wake him from. Joss runs her fingers through John's cropped hair giving quiet words of reassurance, kissing him gently on the cheek. When he turns towards her obviously still mostly asleep she lets him take her good hand and curls up next to him, resting her head upon his shoulder and letting him tuck an arm around her waist. She can always blame it on the meds in the morning if she has to.

**A/N thanks kind readers and reviewing people – really appreciated.**

**(a bit of a quiet chapter, but no, we haven't heard the last of Owen Banks.)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

It's been a long time since John has woken because his body clock tells him to rise rather than his nightmares throwing him into memories he doesn't want to remember and eventually dragging him into wakefulness, and for a moment all he can do is blink blearily at the shadows on the wall at the other end of the room.

_Joss's wall_, he realises, still a little stained with the remnants of the blood he hadn't managed to wash away. He was in Carter's apartment. He'd gone there to clean up but... The warm weight resting against his chest gives a snuffling snore, and he turns his head slowly, blood returning to his squashed extremities as he carefully slides his arm from beneath the woman asleep beside him.

She doesn't open her eyes, instead wrinkling her nose and snuggling against his shirt. _Carter fits well against him_, Reese thinks, the mess of contradictions that make her up for once physical, touchable, rather than clues given when she says one thing and does another. Dancing between what she knows is right and what she knows is legal. Her head is tucked against his shoulder, full lips half open, it's only because she's so close that John can hear her snoring softly. Glancing down he can see the curve of her hip, the softness of her breasts, the sleek muscle of her thigh thrown over his. It's hard to force his body not to react to that and he shifts slightly. She really doesn't need to wake up with his erection poking her in the stomach. The soldier in him notes the gun on the table where the lamp that had been smashed used to be, the oversized T-shirt she's wearing that doesn't look like something she would choose. No sign of Taylor which means that he's probably with his grandmother or a friend.

Studying her he takes inventory. Her breathing is even, her colour is good. One arm is in a sling, a legacy of the gunshot wound, but the soft cheek that rests against him isn't warm enough to be feverish so infection has probably been avoided. She's probably got anti-inflammatory and pain meds to take though; he's so used to having Finch give him information about anyone and everything it's a little disconcerting not to know whether to wake her or not so that she can take them. Carter's self-reliant but she's hurt, glancing at his watch he notes the time – three 'o clock in the morning and he's the only one around to look after her.

As though she has heard his thoughts Joss gives a snuffling noise and stretches out against him, only barely seeming to hear his voice when he says her name. Wincing she opens her eyes blearily and would have tumbled off the couch had John not steadied her with a hand on her hip.

"Good morning," he says quietly.

She lifts her head up, dark almond shaped eyes squinting in the darkness. The only light is coming from the kitchen and it obviously takes her a while to work out where she is and remember what had happened.

"I fell asleep," she says eventually. "Sorry."

"I'm not complaining," John replies lightly, moving slightly so that she can slide off him to the other side of the couch. "You've had a rough couple of days."

He watches as Joss yawns and dips her head, running her fingers through her hair and grimacing when they get caught in their tousled strands. She winces as she tries to straighten the T-shirt over her chest, and noticing her discomfort John gets up and pads over to the kitchen, finding a glass from the cupboard over the sink and filling it with water.

"Where are your meds?" He asks, placing the glass on the table beside her. " Are you due a painkiller yet?"

She looks at him incredulously before picking up the drink and taking a deep swallow. Rubbing her knuckles across her mouth she chuckles faintly. "I thought that you were Big Brother not my mother."

"Consider this a public service." He leans against the wall watching as Joss takes another sip. She looks terrible, her hair tangled around her face, still a little shaky and out of it from sleep and the come-down of whatever they had given her at the hospital. "What are you supposed to be taking?"

Carter rolls her eyes but obviously can't be bothered to argue with him. "In my bag over there." She dips her head towards the front door where she'd dumped it and her boots. "But I'm ok. I'm not due anything until the morning, and" she looks at the half open blinds showing nothing but darkness and the reflection of neon lights. "It's not morning yet."

It doesn't take John long to find the paper bag with the prescription bottles inside. He reads the dosage printed on the stickers quickly, well aware that Joss is watching him with irritation.

"D'you do this for all the people you follow around and piss off?" She says eventually.

John shrugs, taking the bag into the kitchen and putting the medication on the sideboard before returning and sitting next to her.

"Do you use all the people who break into your apartment as a mattress?" Even in the dim light he can see her cheeks flush a little at that. She licks her lips a little nervously, but he fights the urge to reach out to her.

When she eventually speaks her voice is very quiet. "I didn't want to wake you. I wanted to feel safe."

John feels his chest constrict, for a moment it's hard to breathe. "I'm sorry." His voice is rough and his words stumbling. "I promised to protect you and I didn't. I wasn't there when you needed me."

The look she gives him is of such baffled outrage that he's almost tempted to shift further away from her on the couch.

"What's wrong with you?" She sounds genuinely pissed off. "You saved my life. _Twice._ You saved my kid's life, Fusco's kid's life. You took on some of the most batshit crazy, trigger happy psychopaths I've ever seen and now Tay doesn't lose his mom, Fusco's kid gets a future and so do all the people that would have been hurt by the Ember group." Her eyes are blazing, and it's hard to look away from her. "You should have a fucking statue in Times Square not a guilt complex, so pack it in."

"Yes ma'am." The steadfast faith that Joss has in him can't help to make Reese wince. It's been a long time since anyone but Finch has really been on his side, and while he admires and believes he and the reclusive genius have a connection that has evolved from business partners to friendship, neither of them would ever really acknowledge it directly. There is far too much blood on his hands, far too many names branded into his mind of people that he had not, could not save. The emotions are a little too uncomfortable so he deflects them in his usual fashion.

"A statue? I hope you aren't suggesting I pose nude, Joss, I'm not sure where I'd get a fig leaf from."

John's reflexes are very good, but still he's too surprised to flinch when Carter grabs the collar of his shirt and drags his head towards hers. The press of her lips upon his is both soft and insistent, when she pauses for a second, perhaps wondering if she'd gone too far, he cups her head and licks her bottom lip, sighing slightly as she opens her mouth to him. She tastes of cool water and something sweeter, smells of hospital antiseptic and sweat. The curl of her hand around the back of his neck is the first thing that has felt truly real since she went missing.

When she pulls back, breathless, flushed and beautiful he touches her cheek and can't think of anything to say.

Finch however is not as mute. The shrill tones of the cell phone in his pocket mean that the moment is broken almost as soon as it has begun.

* * *

Harold Finch is a practical man but not one who dismisses emotion or sentimentality as being either pointless or damaging. The Machine may be his driving force, his conscience and the only legacy he is likely to leave, for better or for worse, but it is after all a machine. It needs human emotion for anything to come of the numbers it creates, it needs the belief that human lives are worth saving for the numbers to become survivors rather than statistics. They are a symbiotic creature, and it does not escape Finch's notice that it was only by building an emotionless computer that he truly started to feel. You can programme a computer to monitor someone but you can't make it _see _them. Credit history, criminal records, a thousand different variables for millions every day sometimes based on nothing more than a tell-tale word in an email. It can't explain the colour of a lover's hair when it spills over the pillow in the early morning light. It can't understand why a parent would risk getting into debt with a loan shark to pay a child's medical bills.

He's the voice for The Machine and Reese is the muscle. Until either of them walk away.

Frowning, Harold settles back into his chair. He'd managed to get a few hours sleep in the store room in the library that he had converted into a bedroom, but despite the specially designed mattress he woke up aching, his muscles stiff. Checking Reese's cell phone location it wasn't much of a surprise to see him still at Detective Carter's place. He checks Taylor's location almost without realising that he's doing it. Still safe and sound at his grandmother's. No new numbers, no threats to any of them. For the first time he tries to formulate a plan for letting both Reese and Carter go; just because he can't have a future with Grace doesn't mean that John can't make one with Joss. They obviously have feelings for each other, Taylor – annoying, bright, likeable Taylor, wouldn't oppose the match. Harold could set them up, well anywhere they wanted. Fake I.D's, enough money to provide a new life, a house, a business or a farm (he scratches the idea of a farm as soon as it occurs to him – farms involve cows and horses or poultry and none of them have experience with that from his records. He certainly can't see Carter mucking out a stable) anywhere from Canada, Australia to Europe or China. They all deserve a happy, quiet life, and even as he thinks it he knows that it's a pipe dream. Both John and Carter are born soldiers, alpha wolves. Whatever happens between them they won't stop fighting the good fight just because he wants them to have what he can't.

When his computer beeps it's almost a relief to see Owen Banks's face show up on the security camera by the Greyhound bus station. Reese might sound a little sleepy when he answers the phone, but he's alert enough to sound hungry for the information when Harold tells him where the extremist is headed. Owen Banks is now a personal matter for both he and John. He wonders what Reese will say to Carter; he wonders if he'll say anything at all.

**A/N Thanks to my kind readers and reviewers – you do keep me going. Yeah not much happened in this chapter, more action in the next chapter I promise.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

It takes all of Johns considerable skills at negotiation to stop Joss from going with him when he leaves her apartment. He can understand her wanting to go after Banks – she is after all literally and figuratively the injured party in this – in her place he'd be gunning for revenge too. He can't allow it though. Not because of any doubts about her being able to handle herself, even with only one working arm she's a good shot, but because he's sure that Banks isn't going to let himself be taken into custody without at least trying to take as many people down with him. Having her there is a distraction he simply can't afford. In the end he had shut her up by kissing her again, an act he justified as being the quickest way of ending the argument as well as being entirely enjoyable, on both their parts if her response was anything to go on. She still pulled her gun on him when he left though and he's not at all sure whether she didn't shoot him because she knew that she couldn't get her handcuffs on him one handed or was too tired to argue anymore.

Driving to the garage he swaps the Ducati for a nondescript blue Honda, one of Finch's newer acquisitions. It runs well enough and has the added benefit of having child locks on the doors, something that has proven useful in the past. Harold sounds as calm as ever as he keeps him updated on their quarry's location, but Reese wonders how much he knows about what went on at Joss's place that night. His partner is far too well mannered to ask any questions or indulge in innuendo, but he can't help but think that Harold probably sees his emotions regarding Carter even more clearly than he does. Obviously he must have accepted it, perhaps even encouraged it given that it was he who had suggested John go to Carter's place that night in the first place. Since it's not a conversation that is likely to take place any time soon, if ever, he concentrates on the road instead.

The streets are quiet, only a few delivery vans and tired looking people probably returning from night shifts around. The Greyhound bus station is similarly deserted. Parking at the end of the lot, John takes out his binoculars and studies the area. A couple of coaches are parked in their bays, several drivers stood together smoking and sipping from vending machine coffee cups. Sat in the glass shelter are a couple of teenagers too intent on exploring each others tonsils to notice anything around them and a man with a baseball cap pulled down low over his face tucked against the far end and keeping his head down. Even from this distance and with a half-assed disguise Owen Banks is easy to recognise. Given the lack of civilians around it shouldn't be difficult to avoid the possibility of collateral damage, but John knows better than to leave anything to chance. Keeping hidden behind the wall that separates the parking lot from the waiting area of the station he tosses a flash bomb towards one of the unoccupied coaches. The noise and light is startling and the response from the people around predictable. The two teenagers race from the shelter in a panic towards the street, the drivers either running towards the office presumably to find fire extinguishers or backing away from the smoke. Owen Banks follows the kids towards the streets, but darting out from behind the wall Reese catches his arm and drags him backwards as he passes, punching him squarely in the jaw as he does so. The older man falls against the brickwork, bewilderment changing to recognition as he realises who has accosted him. He's not as big as Reese but he's obviously had combat training, John realises belatedly. Although he has a grip on Banks' coat the man pivots and ducks under his arm, kneeing him in the groin and driving the breath out of him. Slipping out of the coat Owen grabs the back of John's head and attempts to smash it forward, fury giving him a strength that is remarkable in such an average looking man. Reese twists and gets a hand up between his forehead and the wall, avoiding a knockout blow, but pain still flashes through his brain when the rough brickwork scrapes across his cheek and from his ribs when his assailant takes the opportunity to slam his fist several times into his side. Something gives way on the third punch, and perversely it's the flare of agony and the resulting rush of adrenaline that gets his head back in the game. Throwing his weight sideways he catches Banks off balance, kicking his legs out from under him. Dropping down and landing with his knees on the older man's chest the grunt Banks makes is both beneficial in preventing him from crying out and extremely satisfying. It only takes a moment for John to pull a syringe from his pocket and inject the sedative into him, although getting the unconscious man into the car is a good deal more difficult and painful than he had anticipated. Tying Banks' hands ankles with plastic restraints and attatching his hands to the car door in the same manner, John starts driving south.

It doesn't take Reese long to get to his destination. Parking the car beside the river side house that had gone into foreclosure a couple of days ago, he sits quietly and waits for Owen Banks to wake up. His head hurts, breathing hurts, at least one of his ribs is probably cracked but he's used to pain. The ethical dilemma however is more novel and more troubling. What to do with the man beside him?

When his prisoner finally stirs he waits patiently until he's stopped struggling and is lucid enough to speak in sentences rather than a litany of swear words.

"The black bitch, the cop. What is she to you?" Owen Banks might still be drugged, his muscles limp, but his eyes are clearing by the second, and his speech is no longer slurred. "What was this? I take your woman so you take out mine?"

John takes a moment to think about the question before he replies. The sky is a promise of colours that will rise with the dawn, Brooklyn Bridge stark black against the horizon a couple of miles away. He wonders why so many of the terrible things that he has done have been against the backdrop of calm, quiet beauty; desert sands and nights of such clear darkness that the moon looked close enough to touch. A mountain range where the air was so clear that it almost hurt to breathe.

"I didn't mean to kill your wife," he says eventually. "If it makes you feel better she was screwing one of her friends when she died."

The older man shakes his head, banging his head on the window in the process. The low moan that breaks the silence is heartfelt, and Reese looks away. He might hate the lunatic but he's no stranger to grief. The look in Owen's eyes is one that he knows all too well.

"Liar!" Spittle sprays from his mouth when he lunges towards his captor but Reese doesn't flinch. The plastic restraints are strong, his Glock is tucked securely at his side, and he knows a dozen different ways to kill Banks with his bare hands on a sliding scale of efficiency and sadism. Writhing and snarling Owen's efforts to get free or intimidate are useless, after perhaps two minutes he gives up and slumps back down in the seat panting heavily.

"Feel better now?"

"Fuck you." Narrowing his eyes he glares at John. "You're a soldier, I know the signs – no way you could have taken out my boys without military training. So what, you turn your back on your country, let the government use you to kill Americans who are actually trying to save us? Multicultural, Islamic, feminazi bullshit eroding the true path. Go home and fuck your little black princess, see where it gets you. Twenty years down the line when America is in chaos it'll be the Ember group people will be turning to."

Listening to the mad man's diatribe, John suddenly feels very, very weary. It would be easy just to put a bullet in Owen Banks's head – he knows that no-one would miss him. His gun is unregistered and dumping the body wouldn't take much effort. The cops would assume that one of the members of the far right had taken him either because of internal politics or to keep him quiet.

He thinks of Abigail and Lee Fusco, the fear in their eyes, the fact that they are probably only alive because of a reclusive billionaire's machine deciding that they were worth bothering about. He thinks of James Kenyon used as a tool to get to Carter and probably now drowning in guilt. He thinks of Taylor's terror tempered with bravery and he thinks of Joss, bloodied, exhausted and tortured. Her quiet faith that he would come for her. The faith that he's one of the good guys and the knowledge that he cannot betray by taking the easy way out.

Owen Banks doesn't have time to flinch when he slams the pistol butt into his forehead and the man slumps against the glass of the car with barely a murmur.

"Finch?" it takes a moment for his associate to respond through his ear piece, and when he does the older man sounds worried.

"How are things Mister Reese? What do you need?"

John looks at the unconscious man beside him. "A new ID for Banks, an untraceable vehicle, at least a kilo of heroin or coke and a call to our friend in Mexico letting him know that he'll have a new guest in his jail for the next, say forever."

Harold takes a while to answer, even over the phone John can almost hear the wheels in his head turning. "I'll have another car waiting for you in the usual place. I'll text you the license number when it's ready, keys in a magnet box under the front wheel."

"I appreciate it." Turning the key in the ignition he eases the car down the bumpy road from the docks to the freeway. Dumping Banks in a Mexican prison is time consuming and a logistical nightmare, but it spares the man from becoming a martyr to his cause if he simply disappears rather than being executed or given his day in court. It also means that he can look Joss in the eye and tell her that she is safe without blood on his hands.

* * *

It's been seven days since John last contacted Joss and the phone call had been too brief and maddeningly vague to tell her much about anything. Apparently Owen Banks was no longer a threat, and OK, yes, that's reassuring. Of course the John the bastard didn't elaborate as to how he'd taken her abductor out, or where he was or if he was alright, just that he'd be in contact when he got back – and back from where she has no idea because he didn't bother divulging that information before he hung up on her either. Harold Finch – finally a name to the face and a reason for all the subterfuge wasn't much help either. Her son flatly refused to tell her where he lived "because he had promised that he wouldn't and he owed the freaky dude," and even after asking for a favour at the precinct the name hadn't registered on any of their databases.

It didn't help that her lieutenant had put her on medical leave until she had the all clear from the doctors, there was still a good week before her stitches would be taken out and some physio work to be done after that. Fusco had stopped taking her calls after she'd bothered him one too many times at work, with the advice to do the chick thing and kick back with ice cream and watch talk shows and quit asking about cases that she couldn't do anything about anyway. He'd save up a load of paperwork for when she got back. Even Taylor wasn't around to distract her. They'd done the mom/son bonding thing when he got back from his grandma. Bad movies and sweet popcorn, catching a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden and arguing good naturedly about it afterwards. She hadn't pushed him to talk about what had happened but when he eventually brought the subject of her abduction up she'd listened and hugged him when he confessed how scared he had been. Letting him go down to Atlanta for a few days to see his cousins seemed like the right thing to do, after all school was out and he hadn't seen his father's family for a while. Taylor had always loved their little farm, although she made sure to caution him not to bring back any ducklings this time.

So that just left her sat alone in her apartment trying to keep her mind occupied and not think of the events of the week before. She'd come close to dying before – as a soldier and then a cop the knowledge that death was a risk of the job was something that she had long accepted. As a mother sometimes she questioned her dedication to her work, but deep down she knew that she couldn't change. How many Taylors had she saved in the course of her career? What would she do if she forced herself onto the sidelines out of the way of danger, safe but essentially useless in her own eyes? Owen Banks had blindsided her, true, but although there had been moments when she truly feared for her life, she had never truly felt alone. Even if he arrived too late Reese was looking for her and would protect her son. It was a comfort she hadn't known that she missed since her husband had died. And then there was the kiss, no, make that kisses. The first one instigated by her, the second by him. _Not that she had exactly fought him off_, she thinks. If he hadn't had to leave she'd probably have tried dragging him to the bedroom and she didn't think that he'd object to her doing so given the bulge in his pants when he'd pulled her against him. Shaking her thoughts from such dangerous territory Joss eyes the faint bloodstain on her wall. With the absence of anything else to do she might as well make a start at fixing that.

Two hours later Joss gives up on painting the living room. Even though she's put down newspaper to protect the floor she's still managed to tread a painty, smudgy footprint in the middle of the carpet and spatter herself like a dalmatian in reverse. As it dries the supposedly pale apricot coloured paint is turning more of a tangerine colour that is going to look terrible with the sage green of her sofa. _Perhaps paint goes off after a while, _the tin has been in the cupboard for a good five years after all. Putting redecorating down on the mental list of things not to do when you're bored, only have one arm working properly and do on the spur of the moment, Joss strips off the rubber gloves she's wearing and drops them into the sink. The knock on the door startles her somewhat, and looking at the wreck of her apartment she smiles wryly. After a week of obsessive cleaning it would be now of all times that she gets a visitor. Carolina from the apartment next door isn't due to drop by until later, but perhaps if bribed with a glass of wine she might be able to offer an opinion on a colour scheme that won't make her home look it's got a bad case of Jersey Shore fake tan. Picking up her gun almost without thinking is a new habit, not one that she thinks about as she moves to the door, however the answer she gets when she asks who's there is both unexpected and at the same time utterly unsurprising.

Opening the door she looks at the tall, beautiful man standing outside for a long couple of moments. He looks tired but his clothes are clean. No suit today, just a t-shirt, a leather jacket and dark jeans. There's a mostly healed scrape on his cheekbone, the yellow bruising around it making the blue grey of his eyes look darker. Quite a big part of her wants to punch him in the tender spot just to hear him wince.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Joss says eventually. "I don't suppose that you're going to answer any of my questions so it's probably not worth inviting you inside." Even to her own ears she sounds pissy and shrill, totally unlike herself. She's the one that owes him, not the other way around, even with the excuse of being a cop there's no justifying an interrogation that will go nowhere if he can't or won't say anything.

"I can get in on my own," Reese says quietly, "but I would prefer an invitation." The way he looks at her makes her mouth go dry. He's always been intense, but this is something different, something deeper. Joss opens the door and lets him through before closing it behind him.

"Orange huh." John has stopped in the living room and is studying her handiwork with what looks a lot like amusement.

"It's Pale Apricot actually, Martha Stewart" she snaps, "why are you here? I'm on leave at the moment in the unlikely event your computer genius friend hadn't told you."

"I'm not here about work." He reaches down and removes the pieces of newspaper from the couch, scrunching them up and tossing them into the corner. The wince he suppresses as he does so would have gone unnoticed if Joss hadn't been paying such close attention and the fight goes out of her like air from a punctured tire.

"What have you done to yourself?" She masks her worry with irritation, walking over to him and giving him the glare that always works on Taylor before sitting down on the couch next to him, reaching for his jacket and pushing it aside. He flinches a little when she peels up his t-shirt and runs gentle fingers over his side, the bruising and the white wraps that are a stark contrast against his skin.

"It's nothing," John says eventually, and Carter has to swallow hard to get rid of the lump in her throat, because this isn't nothing and even though he seems to ignore his own pain she can't.

"Owen Banks," Carter says eventually.

"Rotting in a Mexican jail with no hope of parole."

It takes a moment for Joss to process that information. "Good." Tucking down his shirt she kisses him chastely on the cheek. He turns his head to catch her lips but Joss doesn't let him. "Stay for dinner? Please?"

He looks surprised and the usual smirk is more of a smile when he answers. "Who am I to turn down the cooking of a beautiful woman?"

_A sane one _Carter thinks, trying to think of what is left that is edible in her fridge or cupboards; day old Chinese probably isn't going to cut it. Nonetheless she makes do with what she has and is well aware of him smiling as he watches her.

**A/N: One more chapter to go. The next one will have two versions - one rated "T" and one "M". I won't put the more explicit one up on FFNet as I'd rather not have my account deleted, but I'll provide a link to another site where it can be read or I don't mind sending it in a PM for those who promise that they are of age ;) Annoying I know and not that fair on readers on here that don't have accounts but it seems the best way around the new "M" restrictions. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Nothing that you recognise belongs to me.**

Cooking is a joint effort. Joss isn't particularly brilliant in the kitchen and with Taylor away she hadn't bothered much with shopping, relying on take-out instead, but there was still some eggs that were within their use-by date in the fridge along with some cheese and mushrooms. While she whisks the eggs Reese fixes up a basic salad, and though the omelette isn't going to win her a spot on Top Chef it's at least edible.

They don't talk much while they eat, but the silence is comfortable rather than awkward. Joss isn't quite sure what to say anyway. She can't imagine John answering any of the questions she really wants to ask, and discussing mundane things like the weather or the latest stories in the papers seems silly. She settles for concentrating on her food. When she glances up at him from time to time he's often looking at her. It should be embarrassing, but it isn't. There's something in his eyes that's gentle, almost a promise, and it's hard to finish her meal when her stomach feels tight and her heart starts to beat faster.

John takes the plates into the kitchen when they have finished and puts them in the sink, turning on the tap and rinsing them, Joss stands by him quietly, wiping them down with a towel. She's well aware of him next to her, his size, his warmth. When he passes the cutlery to her his hand brushes hers and it's an effort not to jump. _This is her kitchen, her territory, _she thinks. _She can ask him to leave if she wants. _When everything is put away she finally looks at him, unsure of what to say.

"Thank-you Joss." His words are soft, polite, but the way that he looks at her is so intense that she swallows hard. When one big hand reaches up to cup her cheek she leans into his touch, closing her eyes and covering his hand with hers. The kiss starts off slow, almost chaste, but it's not enough. She curls her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and _oh god she wants this, this had been coming for so long. _Her back hits the sideboard but she doesn't really notice, the solid breadth of his chest is crushed against her breasts, and it feels like coming home. She wraps one leg around his without thinking and he surprises her by hooking the other around his hips, settling the centre of his need into the cradle of her own heat.

Joss gives a breathless mewling cry.

He thrusts his tongue in and out of her mouth with the same rhythm he rubs his body between her legs, wordlessly telling her what he'd really like to be doing, and when his hand slips down and squeezes her breast, his thumb strafing over her nipple she loses all control as a climax hits her without warning.

She feels Johns chuckle rather than hears it. "Damn Joss." He makes no move to set her down, his face buried in her hair, his hands stroking soothingly down her back.

"Bedroom,"she chokes out eventually. "Bedroom now."

"You sure?" He pulls back a little, keeping steadying hands on her sides as she slides down and finds her feet. There's heat in those blue grey eyes but also tenderness, it's a combination that makes her heart hurt. Taking his hand she leads him into her bedroom, making quick work of pulling off her paint splattered jeans and t-shirt and toeing off her sneakers. It's been a hell of a long time, and part of her wonders why she isn't nervous or at least a little self-conscious. John is a gorgeous charming man, he must have had dozens of women far more attractive than she is. The thoughts evaporate when he catches her hands as she reaches around to unclasp her bra.

"Allow me." She drops her arms and lets her eyes close as he unhooks the garment and slides the straps down so slowly that she wants to just beg him to rip the thing off already. His knuckles graze her nipples as he finally removes it and tosses it aside.

"Beautiful." His voice is soft, reverent as he kisses her collarbone, one hand lifting her breast. "You're so beautiful Joss."

She could spend all night like this, just listening to him breathe, the achingly gentle touch of his hands upon her, but it occurs to her that aside from her panties she's naked and he's still fully clothed. It's not an acceptable situation. Pushing his hands away, she tugs his t-shirt up and over his head before tossing it onto the pile of her own discarded clothing. John doesn't seem to mind when she studies him, his mouth quirking in a small smile as she runs her fingers over his pectorals and down his stomach.

"Do I pass inspection?"

Joss frowns. "Your ego is already big enough, you don't need me to tell you you're gorgeous. I'm not so keen on this though." She traces the bandages strapping his ribs and the bruising below them. "I like you better in one piece."

"Duly noted." He tangles his hand in her hair and brings her lips back to his, and it's a few moments before Carter remembers that John's still wearing his pants. Sliding her hands down his stomach without breaking the kiss she undoes his belt buckle and flicks open the top button of his jeans. He fumbles, pulling off his boots and socks, but lets her pull his hand away when he reaches for his pants.

"On the bed." She lets him go and pushes him backwards onto the dark blue sheets.

He stretches out, his hands behind his head, watching her with heavy lidded grey eyes, waiting patiently to see what she will do next.

She doesn't disappoint him. He makes her beg. Their coupling is sweet and intense and too long in coming.

For a long time they lay there breathless, before Joss wriggles closer to him and places a hand on John's belly. He tucks one arm under her neck and strokes her bicep idly with his thumb.

"You OK?" His voice is quiet, uncertain. When she looks at him his eyes are soft in a way that she's never seen before. There's none of the usual bullet-proof self confidence or watchfulness. It's like seeing him for the first time and her chest feels tight suddenly. Even if this never happens again there's no way that either of them are going to be walking away without taking a big chunk out of the other with them. The knowledge is strange and frightening, so she mentally checks herself and tries for humour.

"Why do men ask that?" Joss tries to keep her voice light, but it sounds unconvincing even to her own ears. "I know how sex works, I've done this before. No need to make a big deal out of it." She feels him stiffen beside her for the briefest of moments, and far more disturbing almost feel the intimacy that had cloaked them so soft and sweetly evaporate. When she looks at him worriedly, John has his game face back on, his expression pleasant but blank.

"I didn't mean to cast aspersions on your abilities in the bedroom – the encounter has been most enjoyable." He slides his arm from beneath her and sits up, swinging long legs over the side of the bed. She watches him get up, wincing as he bends down to pick up his shirt.

"Enjoyable," Joss says numbly. "You thought that was enjoyable."

He pauses halfway through pulling his jeans over his legs and gives her a look over his shoulder before zipping them up. "My apologies, I'm not one hundred percent physically fit. The next time you're in the mood for a quick fuck I'll try to do better."

"A quick fuck. Is that what that was?" She's not sure whether to go for her gun or burst into tears. Both are tempting, both have equally humiliating outcomes. Joss settles for untangling the sheet that had been kicked to the bottom of the bed and awkwardly wrapping herself in it. Covering herself makes her feel a little less vulnerable and she glares at the man shaking out his t-shirt and avoiding her eyes. "Cat got your tongue?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "The last time I noticed it was you doing rather interesting things with my tongue Joss, and you're hardly a pussy cat."

"Son of a bitch!" His flippancy makes her almost blind with anger and she throws the first thing to hand at him from the nightstand; a copy of one of Bill Bryson's travel biographies. The book is a hardback and satisfyingly heavy. Reese catches it without any difficulty whatsoever and puts it carefully on her dressing table.

"Careful. You got what you wanted, no need to wreck the place."

His words make no sense whatsoever to Joss. Tired, she flops back against the headboard of the bed. "You're the one who came here remember. If tonight meant more to me than it did to you then that's on me. We can still keep things civil right?"

"More to you?" John leans back against the wall and looks at her incredulously. "Do you know what it was like when Taylor called me and I found your blood splattered across the wall? Do you know what it was like not to know whether you were alive or dead? I would have killed Owen Banks in a heartbeat for what he did to you, the only reason I didn't is because I didn't want that on_ your_ conscience. When it comes to you Joss I'll take what I can get even if for you it "isn't a big deal", and for the record tonight was fucking perfect until now".

He looks angry, he looks exhausted, he looks so fucking beautiful that she struggles to find words. If she doesn't speak he won't stay. If he doesn't stay then what is between them will splinter and she can almost feel the shards piercing her already.

"You're the third man that I've slept with," she says eventually. Reese narrows his eyes at that incredulously, but she shrugs, keeping her gaze locked on his. "My first was Taylor's dad, my childhood sweetheart, my husband. My second was two years after he died. Nice guy, sweet, handsome, ticked all the boxes, did everything right and I didn't feel anything. I figured maybe you only ever get one person that you truly connect with. Until you." She touches the gauze that covers the wound on her shoulder. "Do you know what kept me going when Banks had me? Knowing that you had Taylor's back and that you'd be looking for me. You found me, you see me." Joss lifts dark eyes and looks at John. "I see you too."

John takes a deep breath, suddenly the shirt in his hands appears to be endlessly fascinating to him. "Then you should be running as fast as you can away from me."

"I don't want to." The words come out as little more than a whisper. "Whatever this is I want it." The tears that prick her eyes are pretty pathetic Joss thinks; she's always been disdainful of women who use them to manipulate men, but hiding them would be dishonest and John would see right through her anyway. When he eventually looks at her he doesn't look angry anymore, his jaw is still tense but his eyes are so sad that she reaches an arm out towards him without thinking about it.

"You don't know the things I've done," he says quietly.

"I don't care." As she says the words Joss knows them to be true. Reese might not be the sensible choice objectively speaking but he's the right one for her. When he walks over to her and lets her pull him back onto the bed she snuggles against his side and holds onto his hand incase he changes his mind.

"I don't deserve you," John murmurs, kissing her forehead.

Carter chuckles, looking up and smiling at him."I don't know about that, after tonight I reckon you're a keeper."

"As I said Joss, I'm not at my best, next time will be better." The smirk he gives her is so smug and utterly him that she rolls her eyes.

"If that's true then the next time will probably kill me. Finch will have to send you to protect me from yourself."

"There are worse ways to go."

"You're an ass," Joss mutters sleepily.

"You're a gift." John kisses the top of her head and watches as Carter falls asleep. For the first time in a long while he feels truly happy, and for the first time in a long while he lets himself dream.

**A/N Complete! (Is there a more satisfying word for an author to type? I think not). Wow, a non-one shot story is actually the number of chapters it was supposed to be – that's a first. The chapter is quite short because I had to censor some of it – sorry. The more explicit version of the chapter can be found on the link on my profile page**** (for some reason links are ok on profile pages but not on chapters), sorry it's too long to send in a PM for those who requested it. *Sigh * why are you making things so difficult for writers FFNet – you make lots of money out of us and the only thing we get is feedback from readers if we're lucky . Sulk. Pout. Flounce.**

**Thanks everyone who has been reading, giving feedback and generally made this so much fun to write.**


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